Lone Wolf Teaches Cub
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean discovers he has a legacy after all.
1. He's A Nice Guy

A/N: Saw "The Kids Are All Right" last week and this damned plot bunny just came roaring from nowhere when I saw that sequence with Dean and Ben on the park bench. Written quickly and unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

Characters: evil!Dean Winchester, Ben and Lisa Braeden, Sam Winchester, John Winchester and Bobby Singer, YED, Ryan Humphrey and his gang of bullies, mention of Jessica Moore, Bobby Singer's family, and Mary Winchester.

Warnings: Implied violence, character deaths (mostly implied), some rough language.

POV: Dean Winchester

Timeline: AU – very dark fic; up to Pilot. First, second and third season (except for The Kids Are All Right) never happened.

Spoilers: The Kids Are All Right

Pairings: Dean/Lisa (so how do ya think Ben got here?)

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just playin' with 'em for a while.

Summary: Dean discovers he has a legacy after all.

Writing this stuff is my version of Paxil. I'm a sucker for reviews, so don't be shy.

**Lone Wolf Teaches Cub**

**by silver ruffian**

Dean can smell fast food grease and sugar, too much body odor and not enough soap and water coming off the fat kid in waves. The Fat Kid Who Should Lay Off The Burgers (AKA Ryan Humphrey) stands in the middle of his little group of friends, head down, concentrating on the Ben's hijacked video game, and it's such a pitiful excuse for a wolf pack that Dean tries not to laugh. He cocks his head slightly to one side, drops his gaze on the kid like a gunsight, and he's secretly pleased when Ben copies the motion.

"No! Don't go over there!" Ben had said moments before, when Dean offered to go over and retrieve the game from the chunky little bastard. "Only bitches send a grown-up."

"You're not wrong," Dean replied with a smile, and he actually felt hopeful when the kid answered, "And I'm not a bitch."

Hope was something Dean hadn't really allowed himself to feel these last eight years. There had been too many near misses and disappointments, and he had better things to do than sit around getting all emo. Too much drama actually made his head hurt sometimes. That was something Dad and Sam couldn't understand, and never would.

Lisa hadn't been too happy to see him when she opened her front door to find Dean on her doorstep.

"We spent one night together a million years ago," she'd hissed, her eyes widening slightly. "What are you doing here?"

Figures she'd have a different interpretation of their time together. He was in a mellow mood though. "I was in the neighborhood," Dean said mildly, blinking in the bright sunshine. "Just thought I'd stop by." Eight years and one kid later, and Lisa still looked good. Pretty damn good, as a matter of fact.

She was a lot more agreeable by the time Dean left.

Ben's all coiled energy yet loose and relaxed, and Dean watches as he gets up and walks over to the Fat Kid and his kiddie wolf pack. They turn as a group and sneer at Ben, and Dean watches with hooded eyes.

Ben turns around and glances at Dean, and he gives Ben a thumbs up. Dean can almost hear John's soft rumble of a voice inside his head: "Baby steps, Dean. Baby steps." Practice was repetition, over and fucking over again, and when he was older Dean thought it was boring and pointless. Marine drills, done just for the sake of doing it.

Dean appreciated all that sense memory once he started hunting, though. Had to give Dad credit for that, at least.

Ben turns back around, and they stand there for a moment, the bullies and the bullied. Dean can easily make out what's being said, but he concentrates on Ben instead. Kid's first time out, and Dean's not adverse to giving a little nudge, a little helping hand here and there, if he has to.

_Think of a balloon filled with water_, Dean had told Ben. _Full-on Swayze that sucker, grab it by the middle and give it a really hard squeeze. _

Ryan's eyes widen then, in pain and fear and just utter disbelief, and the fat little sucker doesn't stand a chance. He drops like a rock to the ground, his blood already cooling, the electrical energy in his brain stopped cold. He won't have to worry about childhood obesity, heart disease or high cholesterol ever again. One less drain on the healthcare system, Dean thinks as he glances around.

Dean shifts his perception to the people in the park around them. No one reacts. They don't see _anything_, he makes sure of that. Got the idea from those penguins in "Madagascar."

That movie cracks Dean up each and every time he sees it.

He's stunned when the other bullies' eyes widen and they drop to the ground dead as well. Dean jerks back, feels his own eyes widen in disbelief.

Damnnn….

"Thanks," Ben chirps as he snatches the game from Ryan's cold dead fingers. He's practically bouncing on his toes as he heads back to Dean and the bench.

Dean actually feels his chest swell with pride. Up until then he'd always thought that was an expression that some hack writer would dream up, words he might'a read in one'a Sammy's school books, back when he was helping Sam with his schoolwork.

All that seems so fucking distant, a lifetime ago.

Dean stands up, and Ben runs right up to him, no hesitation at all, and hugs Dean around the waist. Dean ruffles the kid's hair, and he feels something loosen inside his chest. He'd waited so long for this. _Just one kid,_ he'd prayed often at night. _Just one. I__s that so hard?_

The yellow-eyed shadow in his dreams just laughed at him. _Yeah, it is._

It gets lonely on the road. Sometimes it gets downright unbearable.

"Time to go," Dean murmurs, and Ben nods, his face still buried in Dean's jacket front. It'll be good to get moving again. Dean gets kinda edgy staying in one place for too long. He glances down at the top of Ben's head and, on impulse, ruffles the kid's hair again. Ben wiggles happily underneath Dean's touch.

It's good to be needed again, too.

Dean glances over at the Impala, and even though the car is so distinctive it turns heads, he's still glad he kept it, didn't ditch it like maybe he should have. In one corner of his mind he can feel Sam, can feel Sammy's disapproval at what just went down.

He can see Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, half a state away, in some cheap motel room he and Dad and Bobby are holed up in. The older men stare warily at Sam as he pulls his shaking hands away from his pale face. Dean can feel the yellow explosion of pressure and agony in Sam's head, right between Sam's eyes, and that's one thing Dean's always regretted. He doesn't like causing Sam any pain.

"Dean's…Dean's found one," Sam stammers. John goes pale and turns away, and Bobby curses under his breath.

They've been on the road for so long, the years and the constant motion are taking its toll, but they're determined, and Dean knows they'll never stop until they find him. They'll never forget, and they'll never forgive him for what he did to Jessica, to Bobby's family, and to Mom. Sam has these visions sometimes, and Sam's the reason they're one step behind Dean most times.

If he was the total bastard they think he is, Dean would've dropped Sam like a bad habit. Literally. But he can't bring himself to do that.

Not yet, anyway.

Sometimes Dean thinks Sammy's just jealous.

finis


	2. Back in Black

A/N: Well here it is, by popular demand (yeah, the** two** of you know who you are – just kidding!) the second part of this twisted little road trip. This chapter contains a little more background of some of the stuff that was in the first part. There's Dean and Ben on the road, and some Bobby (and indirectly John) angst. Will probably raise more questions than it answers. I'm aiming for thirteen parts (lucky number 13), and then we are done for now, folks. Once again, unbeta'd. My mistakes, all mine, y'all.

Pairings: Dean/Ruby (implied); mention of Dean/Alicia Walker (Gordon's sis)

Disclaimer: Don't own Dean, Ben, Ruby, Sam, Bobby, Gordon, John, or Mary. I did make Alicia up.

_**Lone Wolf Teaches Cub**_

_**Chapter 2**_

_**00000**_

Eight feet away from the Impala Ben stops in his tracks and stares. Dean tenses up when he hears Ben take a sharp intake of breath.

_Son of a bitch. __**Now**__ what?_

Dean's skin and the air around him nearly crackles with unseen energy, the way it always does whenever he's in full-on alert mode. He only needs a direction, a target to lash out at. It's one of the things his Dad used to love about him.

Now it's one reason why John hates him with a passion.

The nearest person is a jogger Dean sees off to Ben's left; Dean narrows his eyes as he focuses on the guy. Big tall dude, dark haired, huffing and puffing, trying to work off that paunch of his. Looks harmless enough, but so did that female hunter with the fake baby in Cincinnati last year. The bullets from that semi-auto she was packing stung like a mother.

Dean scowls and the jogger keels over as his carotid artery is crushed like an empty soda can.

No one notices _that_, either.

Dean and Ben are still in the clear, and they will be until they drive far enough away and the people in the park are out from under Dean's influence. No one notices the heap of dead bully boys in the grass behind them, and Dean has just enough time to wonder what the hell is up with Ben when the kid lets out all the breath in his lungs in one excited gulp of air.

Ben lunges past Dean and runs over to the Impala.

"Dude," Ben breathes. He runs his hands reverently over the girl's perfect sleek black frame as he turns and smiles at Dean. Ben's eyes are alight, a look of perfect bliss on his small face. "_This. Is. Awesome_." He puts a period behind each word. Dean just laughs and shakes his head.

"It's a rolling chick magnet!" Ben proclaims.

"Yeah, that's my baby." Dean lovingly strokes the right rear bumper. "Used to belong to my Dad."

"He just _gave_ it to you?" Ben says in disbelief.

Dean shrugs. Well, not exactly.

Dean cranks "Back in Black" up loud as they pull off. Ben gets up on his knees in the seat, sticks his head and shoulders out the window. He leans out, grinning like a maniac. The wind whips through his short spiky dark hair, and if he were a dog his tongue would be hanging out.

Dean glances over at him and shakes his head. "Dude, chill."

Five seconds later Ben's sits back down in his seat, scowling slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. He's not a happy camper, but he buckles up again like Dean wants him to anyway.

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he counts backwards to twenty inside his head. He glances at the rear-view mirror a few times and sure enough he hears the first faint screams in the park when he reaches minus three…

_**000000**_

_You created this damn monster_, Bobby thinks to himself, but he keeps a neutral expression on his face when he's around Sam and Bobby.

They know he hates Dean. He's made that fact apparent. Couldn't hide it, even if he wanted to.

He wonders if John and Sam know how much he hates _them_ too.

Bobby watches Sam get up and shakily cross the room as he goes into the bathroom. The kid's face is ashen; his skin seems paper-thin, ready to tear apart at any moment. Sam has dark bruises underneath his eyes and his hands shake slightly as he closes the door behind him. Being linked to big brother is taking a toll on him, but he's young and strong. He'll last, for now.

John sits at the table near the window as he leafs through that leather bound journal of his. His face is carefully, curiously blank, but Bobby knows that John wants to crawl inside a bottle, wrap himself in the wet warm embrace of Jack and Josè. John never says much, but John always wonders why he didn't see it then, wonders how he could have been so fucking blind about Dean.

If John had known then what he knows now, he would have strangled Dean at birth with no hesitation. Would have saved everybody a lot of grief and heartache if he had.

Bobby rummages through John's pack when neither one'a them's around. He always takes and pours out whatever booze he finds and so far John probably thinks that Sam's the one doing it, which suits Bobby just fine.

The daddy drinks too fucking much sometimes and the youngest kid's a freak too, but he's a freak that Bobby can use. For now.

Bobby doesn't think very much about what he's going to do when they finally catch Dean. He knows he'd like to see those wide green eyes glaze over with pain and fear and agony. He knows he wants to hear Dean scream out, beg and plead for his life as Bobby kills him. Slowly.

Things don't always go according to plan. Bobby's a living witness to that.

But after he takes care of that green-eyed freak of nature, Bobby thinks, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing for the world if John and Sam Winchester went extinct too.

_**000000**_

_**Across the Indiana state line**_

_**Three hours later**_

Dean's first through the door of the Alhambra Roadside Café. It's a lifelong habit of his, entering a room, a place, _anywhere _first, a habit he started with Sam. Dean did the reverse with John. Until things went south, Dean always had his Dad's back, right up until the day they tried to kill each other.

Ben follows in Dean's wake, stretching his own stride, rolling his hips and shoulders, mimicking the older man's gunfighter strut. Dean's head turns slightly from side to side as he scans the place and the patrons for potential threats. It's a casual move, nothing out of the ordinary, something only another hunter or a cop would notice.

He gets nothing.

Typical lunch time crowd, noisy, hungry, and demanding to be fed. No hunters, no cops, no threats, human or Otherwise.

They slide into a booth near the window, and Dean sits facing the door.

Ben looks for a moment, then gets up and sits right next to Dean.

The waitress comes over. She's redheaded, about Dean's age (nametag says _Andrea_), and she looks Dean up and down hungrily and smiles a little too widely as she hands out those laminated menus. Dean smiles brightly right back at her.

Ben sits up straight. He smiles brightly at her, but she's got eyes only for Dean.

A cute nine year old girl walks by on her way to the restroom, all bubblegum pink and brunette ponytail swinging from side to side, and Ben's head swivels around, tracking her.

"So, what looks good?" Dean drawls.

Ben flips the laminated menu open, purses his lips. "Coffee. Black."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him.

"What?" Ben goes wide-eyed and innocent, and despite himself, Dean's impressed.

"Dude, you're only eight."

"My mom let me drink coffee."

"Uh huh. Yeah. Tell me another one."

"Well, she woulda." Ben's shoulders slump slightly, then he brightens. "My ninth birthday's comin'up."

Dean's grin is warm and slightly crooked. "Huh. Imagine that. A year older and you'll _still_ be a little dude with _no_ coffee."

Ben sighs deeply and clasps his hands together on the table in front of him. "Well, it was worth a shot," he says with a shrug.

Andrea comes back with their food fifteen minutes later. Hamburger, fries and grape soda for Ben; a thick steakburger and steak fries and a Coke for Dean.

Dean makes a mental note to himself to see to it that Ben has something nutritious and non-greasy for his next meal. When they were on the road Dean tried to feed Sam something healthy at least once a day; it's a good habit, one he's not going to break with Ben.

Halfway through the meal with no warning Ruby slides into the booth opposite them. She flashes Dean a rattlesnake smile and he tilts his head to one side as he glares at her. The blonde bitch must be shielded.

Still, all the shields in the world won't protect her from him, not for long, not _this_ close, and Ruby knows that. Chick always did have a set of brass balls.

Ruby knows the only reason Dean doesn't unload on her right quick and proper is that it would be like laying down a trail of bread crumbs for Sam, John and Bobby and any other hunter that might be in the area. Dean's had enough of that for today.

Besides, she doesn't have a claim on him, not anymore, and they both know that.

Ben freezes as he raises his burger halfway to his mouth. He sets it down on his plate and glances sideways at Dean.

Dean relaxes slightly, and so does Ben.

"Got a job for ya, Dean," Ruby purrs softly.

Dean shakes his head, makes a clicking sound with his mouth. "Don't work for ya anymore," he drawls softly. The"bitch" at the end of the sentence is unspoken, but Ruby gets it just the same.

It rolls off her back just like everything else She shrugs. "Aw, come on, it'll be fun. Like old times. You can even do some of that male bonding stuff with mini-me over there."

Ben bristles. "M'not mini-me," he says darkly. The growl in his voice is a lightweight version of Dean's own deep smooth rumble.

"Yeah, sure you're not, honey." Ruby says carelessly. She reaches out to snag a french fry from Ben's plate and Dean moves so fast his hand is almost a blur. He slaps her hand away and Ruby flinches a little. There's a spark, and the top of her hand where he touches her blackens. The burn mark covers the top of her hand.

Dean stares at her with narrowed eyes.

There ws a time when he wouldn't have dared raise a hand against her, unless she wanted him to, but that's time's long past. Ruby leans back against the bench seat as she clutches her injured hand by the wrist. Her smile is sly, slightly crooked. "Aw, you remembered I like it rough, didn't you, Dean? That's so sweet."

She leans forward, touches the sleeve of Dean's dark blue fatigue jacket with her injured hand, and she smirks as he twists his hand around, catches her wrist in his fingers and goes for the pressure point there. His fingers dig deeply into her skin and she never stops smiling.

"I spent the best nights of my life with you, remember? You're so considerate." She winks at Ben, and he glares at her. "And so…thorough…"

"What the f---" and Dean has to catch himself. _Language, dude, language. Not around the kid._ "What do you want?" he says harshly.

"We want you to massacre a town for us."

Dean laughs shortly. He releases his hold on her, picks up a french fry with his other hand and pops it into his mouth. "Don't need _me_ for _that_, sweetheart. Way I hear it, you got legions out there for _that_." He gestures at the door. "Speaking of 'out', there's the door. Don't let it hit you on the way out."

"You got a gift. It's a pleasure watching you work." Ruby crosses her arms on the table in front of her. Her hand's healed up already. Ben can't help but stare. Dean picks up his steakburger and bites into it. He concentrates on his food, and the meaning is clear: _Not interested, bitch. Move on._

Ben smirks as he eats.

"We can tell you where your other kids are," Ruby murmurs softly. Dean doesn't seem to hear her. He picks up his glass of soda and drinks half of it, but he sets the glass down on the table with a hard thump. His green eyes fairly glow as he stares at her.

"They're warded. Protected." Ruby looks bored. She waves her right hand lanquidly in the air. "Safe in the loving arms of their normal God-fearing families who are bound and determined to beat the hell outta them if they even _think_ of acting like dear ol' Dad."

Andrea passes by the table. She shoots Ruby a dirty look, and Ruby rolls her eyes at her. Andrea slaps the check face down on the worn tabletop and leaves quicker than she came.

"Alicia Walker, Dean. Remember her? Smooth brown skin, lips like strawberries and cream? I hear she really liked that one move you do with your mouth and your tongue. You really rocked her world." Ben's smirk gets a little wider. Dean glares at him sideways and the kid's face promptly goes blank.

Ruby laughs. "Oh, and don't forget her psycho hunter brother, Gordon. Gee, bet ol' Gordie never figured that the fugly who messed lil' sister up would be a fellow hunter. You haven't forgotten Alicia, have you, Dean?"

Dean smiles tightly. "I can find out where they are on my own. Don't need you."

"Sure you don't. And after you try and fall flat on your ass, whistle me up, why don't you. You know how to whistle, don't you, Dean? Just put your lips together and blow."

Ruby slides out of the booth and out the door in one smooth motion. Gone, just like that.

"Dude, who was that bi----"

"Ben," Dean says warningly, and Ben wisely shuts up..

_**000000**_

Hours later Ben discovers that there really is magic in the Magic Fingers. It's been a big day for the kid, and he struggles mightily to stay awake, but that's one battle he loses around a quarter to ten. They're at Thompson's Gateway Inn right off the I-9 for the night, and as motels ago, it's not bad at all. Dean's been in worse places.

Much worse. Sometimes he even dreams he's back there.

This place is newly built, less than three years old. It's a little pricier than some of the motels Dean's stayed in, but for Ben's first night on the road Dean figures the kid's worth it. Money's not a problem at the moment.

The carpets are fairly clean and new, the walls are bright and freshly painted, and the place smells clean, not sour. The beds are soft, not lumpy, and all in all, it's not bad. A nice place to rest, to have good dreams that night.

Seeing Ruby today stirred up a lot of things inside Dean. Good, bad, or indifferent, he remembers it all.

He remembers kneeling in front of her, calling her "Mistress."

He dreams about the day they put that collar on him. She made him stand still while they tattooed her ownership sigil on the small of his back.

And he remembers the day he took that collar off, all by himself.

Dean shifts restlessly in his sleep. He doesn't even remember dimming the lights down, but he must have. He's still sitting in that big easy chair, and Ben is a small dark shape under the covers in the bed next to the window. Dean closes his eyes, listens to the slow in and out of the kid's breathing, and it relaxes him even further.

Slim arms slip around his neck and shoulders from behind. Dean closes his eyes, breathes in her scent, and he can't help but grin.

"He's beautiful, Dean," Mary says quietly. Dean nods and settles down under her touch.

They watch Ben sleep for another moment or two, and Mary sighs wistfully. "Are you eating enough, Dean? You look thin."

He laughs softly. Despite everything he's done, everything he's become, Dean always feels like he's four years old again whenever she comes by, and he doesn't mind one bit. He needs it sometimes.

Mary doesn't stay for long. She never does, and Dean doesn't move until she fades completely away. His skin tingles with the memory of her touch. She kisses him goodnight, but she doesn't tell him that angels are watching over him.

They aren't. Not any more.

_**000000**_

TBC


	3. Fair Trade

A/N: Yavneh, the demon go-between, is named after Cyrus Yavneh, one of the producers on Supernatural. I just thought it sounded like a good name for a demon to have. The confrontation in the cabin between John, Sam and Dean happened in that motel room in Jericho, California, not in the Midwest. Carole, I'm usin' your "Old Yeller" nickname again. I have no shame.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. I'm just twisting 'em around a little.

Spoilers: Pilot, Devil's Trap

_**Lone Wolf Teaches Cub**_

_**Part 3**_

_**000000**_

Ruby gets hungry a couple of hours after she sees Dean and Ben in the diner, so she hangs around a rest stop a few miles down the road and picks up something for a late lunch. "Something" turns out to be dark haired, six foot three inches tall. He's a construction worker from Chicago, Illinois.

Ruby doesn't even care enough to ask his name.

His eyes are green, like Dean's, but they're not as wide and bright as Dean's, and while he has a nice mouth it's not quite as full and sensuous as Dean's mouth. The whole point is, he's _**not **_Dean, so despite John Doe's semi-talented tongue, hard muscle and grabby hands Ruby gets bored and disposes of him rather quickly.

She leaves him crumpled on the floor of the motel room. She knows the coroner's report will say that he died from a massive coronary infarction, which is kind of odd for someone his age, but really not all that unusual, when you think of the number of young athletes who drop dead from hidden heart disease. It's not a clue of anything supernatural, and she even makes sure that the desk clerk remembers her as being short and dark-haired, instead of tall and blonde.

The general consensus will be that the dark haired little hooker bailed after her john died of a heart attack. Case closed.

It doesn't point to Dean's trail, but it's not like she really wants to do the boy any favors. It's not time to drop the hammer on him. Not yet, anyway.

Walking away from the motel she feels a prickle of _Otherworldliness _wash over her skin and sure enough Yavneh is _there_, walking right beside her. She's never understood why it always shows up in the body of this older white man, when it could have its pick of any meatsuit around. Humans she understands. Demons are just crazy.

"Are you _sure_ you'll be able to deliver him to us?" Yavneh asks, and that high-cultured tone, that expectation of failure on her part, makes her roll her eyes skyward.

"You came all this way just to ask me _that_?"

Yavneh quirks an eyebrow at her. "We're on a timetable, you know that."

"You'll have him soon enough."

"My employers are concerned. He's not your attack dog anymore, Ruby. He's headstrong and unpredictable. He's been on his own for the last year. Azazel made the mistake of making promises he couldn't keep. I have your own best interests at heart, my dear. Wouldn't want to see _you_ make the same mistake."

Ruby snorts. _Like hell you wouldn't_, she thinks, but she smiles anyway. She glances at the soft thin skin of Yavneh's neck and imagines the point of her knife blade going in there sharp and deep…

_**000000**_

"Christo," John snarls, straining against Dean's hold on him. John's slammed back against the wall for his trouble. Dean looks at his father with a mixture of amusement and scorn.

"You think I'm possessed? Huh. Is _that_ what you think this is?" Dean steps closer and pats the pockets of John's jeans. John glares at him. "You got that silver flask in your pocket? You know, the one with the holy water in it? I'm thirsty, Dad."

Dean finds the flask, unscrews the cap. It's the good stuff, all right, not the flask with the whiskey in it. He takes a good long drink, and John's eyes narrow dangerously.

Nothing happens.

"Something like that doesn't work on something like me."

"Dean, you…you killed Jess…" Pinned against the opposite wall, Sam sounds wounded to his very core, devastated beyond belief.

Dad stands pinned against the opposite wall, and he's a whole 'nother story altogether. John Winchester stares at his eldest son with deep abiding hatred as Dean goes around the room packing up his duffel.

"You left, Sammy." Dean shrugs.

"Wh-what?"

"You ditched us. I stayed with Dad and he up and ditched me too."

"You killed Jess because I left to go to Stanford?" Sam says in disbelief.

"Well…" Dean scowls. He shakes his head. Trust Sam to make shit more complicated than it really has to be. "That was part of it. I mean, I didn't care about her one way or another, you know? The thing is, you want normal, and you can't have it, Sam. You can't. You're one of us…"

"I'm nothing like you!" Sam's fairly hissing with rage now. Better, much better. Sadness has always creeped Dean out. Anger and rage are emotions he's more comfortable with.

"Whatever, dude." Dean shrugs carelessly. "You really think you can have normal,_ be_ normal, after what you've seen out here? After what you've _done_? You were gonna marry her."

John's eyes jerk sharply in Sam's direction. Dean chuckles. "That's right. Didn't tell you _that_, did he, Dad? Picked out the rings and everything."

"You…you killed her," Sam stammered. "You came back, pulled me out…."

"I did you a favor. They were gonna use her to torment you, Sammy. I couldn't allow that. Had to double back because you were gonna kill yourself trying to save her." Dean shook his head. "Wouldn't make much sense to let _that_ happen, not after all the trouble I'd gone through."

Dean stops, picks up the Colt and stares at it. Fear No Evil. Nice piece. Nice balance. "Damn thing's caused nothing but trouble," he says out loud. He puts it in the duffel and walks towards the door, slinging the duffel across his broad back as he goes.

"Dean, your mother loved you," John says hoarsely. "Son, she died for you…"

Dean stops in his tracks. He tilts his head slightly to one side as he turns slowly towards John. Dean's face is carefully blank, a mask, closed off, impenetrable.

"Yeah." Dean nods. "Yeah, she did, Dad."

"Dean, we can help you. Whatever this is, whatever's wrong, we can fix it."

Dean blinks slowly. Then he smirks. "I'm_ not_ broken, and I don't _need_ to be fixed. You're not trying to stall me, are you, Dad? Keep me here talking about the good old days in Lawrence, Kansas? Tryin' to delay me until Bobby shows up? He's about thirty minutes out," Dean adds as he turns for the door. "Say hi to the old bastard for me, will ya?"

"Dean," Sam whispers, softly, under his breath. He sags against the wall. Just about all the fight has gone right out of him. Dean can feel Sam's heartbeat, fast and panicky, and he'd like nothing better than to calm little brother down. Only problem with that is, at this point Dean never learned the finer nuances of his power, not then anyway. If he had tried to slow Sam's heartbeat down he'd end up killing Sam instead.

Killing John and Sam was one thing Dean _never_ promised ol Yeller.

_**000000**_

Two hours later Dean waits on the bridge outside Jericho. It's supposed to be haunted by a woman in white, a chick named Constance Welch, and for once the locals aren't just blowing smoke just to generate some much-needed tourist dollars. Dean's not into necrophilia, but she looks pretty damn good for a dead chick. He can certainly see why she was able to lure several of the local men to their deaths.

She stands there on the bridge railing staring hungrily at him, barefoot, her lips at full pout, her long dark hair and skin-tight white dress flowing around her. Dean watches with mild interest as she duplicates the swan dive into the river she took years ago after she drowned her kids in the bathtub at home.

Lives ruined, potential lost, and all that.

Big whoop.

Dean tries not to yawn.

He stands at the railing next to the Impala. He doesn't go over to see exactly where Constance ended up, and that must've pissed her off, because the Impala's lights flash on, and the girl's engine rumbles to life.

Dean quirks an eyebrow at the car. _I don't think so, bitch._

He has a brief flash of Constance sitting in the front seat, passenger side, and she seems startled when Dean directs his attention towards her. She drops the beautiful façade and goes all fugly, hollow-eyed and skeletal.

Constance fades out in a blur of white static.

The Impala goes quiet and dark, and Dean soothingly runs a hand over her right front bumper.

They're watching him, have been from the moment he drove onto the bridge. He can't see anything but he knows they're there. A slight buzz in the air, something dark and fast flitts just outside the corner of his vision.

Dean stands there, listening to the rushing water. No owls or small animal sounds here…they won't come near the bridge because of dear old Constance. He sharpens his hearing, picks up on the sound of something rushing through the air coming in from his right.

He doesn't see anything when he glances behind him.

Whatever this is keeps right on coming, straight at him.

Dean turns back around, leans forward, puts his elbows on the bridge railing.

He catches sight of something metallic out of the corner of his eye, and Dean straightens up suddenly, brings his arm up shoulder high, slightly bent, as he braces himself. The clothesline maneuver catches the thing in the soft part of its throat. Dean wrinkles up his nose as the bastard's breath comes gushing out in one big rush. Smells like methane, blood and sulfur.

The fugly's legs shoot out from under it, lift straight up in front, and Dean turns, curls his left hand into a fist and drives it into the thing's face hard. He tags it twice before our good friend Mr. Gravity takes over and the fugly begins to fall. Teeth fly into the air like Chiclets.

Dean pushes down with his arm and his mind, and the fugly hits the bridge deck dazed and bleeding.

It's rail thin, mottled gray, totally hairless, wearing a tattered pair of dark stained trousers. That now-broken mouth stretches almost from one pointed ear to the other. The fingers are unnaturally long and slim, tipped with elaborate shiny silver finger claws that look oddly out of place with the rest of it.

"You never did play well with others, Dean. That's one thing we could've worked on," a familiar voice chuckles.

Dean straightens himself, and he scowls a little as he brushes a few stray tooth fragments off the shoulder of his fatigue jacket. "If _that's_ the kinda help you got workin' for you nowadays, you're in deeper shit than I thought you were."

He turns in the direction of the voice.

It's the scary janitor dude again. This guy must be one of Azazel's favorite meatsuits, because he wears him again and again. Poor bastard must not _have_ a life. He stares at Dean and smiles, The skin around his murky yellow eyes crinkles, and Dean just stares at him. He's not buyin' it for a moment.

Azazel shakes his head. "We're having a warm and fuzzy moment here, sport. You could indulge me for a moment, couldn't you?"

Dean squints darkly at him. "You made deals you couldn't follow through on, and _I_ have to clean up your mess. I've got the Colt. We're square from now on."

"Good. Good! I _knew_ you could do it." Azazel claps a hand on Dean's shoulder and Dean looks very pointedly at the hand and then at him. Azazel removes his hand. Slowly. No sudden movements. "Did you take care of John and Sammy?"

"Hell, no."

"Huh. You didn't."

Dean grins wolfishly. "No. I got you the damn gun. That's it. That's all."

"Having them killed was part of the deal I made." Azazel sighed. "I still have to sweeten the pot."

"Good luck with that. Hope it works out for you," Dean says sarcastically.

Azazel blinks slowly. "Oh, I think it will."

Something hard slams into Dean from behind. His knees buckle as it slashes across his back, through the layers of clothing. Sharp metal pierces his skin, and as he turns in the direction of whatever the hell this is warmth floods through him, weakening his muscles, turning his reflexes and reaction time into mush. He sinks to his knees, and he can barely feel the concrete underneath him.

He can't keep his head up, vision is graying out already, everything's shutting down and nothing works, and the last thing Dean remembers is slim fingers near his face, slowly lifting his chin up. He sees long blonde hair and maliciously cold eyes. She smiles at him and licks something dark and wet off the set of silver finger claws that covers her right hand.

Blood. His blood...

"Such a beautiful creature," the woman murmurs approvingly.

Azazel shrugs. "So, Ruby, he's enough?"

Ruby smiles at Dean. "Oh yes. More than enough…"

Everything goes pitch black…

**_000000_**

Dean regains consciousness slowly, rising out of his dream state like a swimmer moving upwards towards the surface of a sunlit lake. Doesn't happen very often, but sometimes he's stuck in a moment, perfect and freezing cold, between sleep and wakefulness, in which he forgets _who_ he is,_ where _he is. Used to happen on the road sometimes, with John and Sam.

_What city is this, what state, what the hell are we hunting, fuck, what's my name and what am I pretending to be today? Newspaper reporter? Homeland security? Insurance investigator? FBI? ATF?_

He knows he's lying in bed, on his back. Knows that much. No pain anywhere, no blood on his skin, and he's still breathing, deeply and easily, which is good.

Pain free and unbloodied is always pretty damn good in Dean's book.

Dean can hear someone moving around in the room, and he frowns slightly. The sounds are familiar, but the weight behind the movements is all wrong. Too small, too light. Couldn't be Dad. Or Sam. Ever since Sam had that freakin' growth spurt sharing a motel room with the kid was like rooming with that proverbial 900 pound gorilla. Sam never felt at ease with his own body, which was something Dean never _could_ understand.

The bed dips slightly as whoever this is comes climbs up beside him. Light, casual movements. Dean feels the muscles underneath his skin tighten, hidden energy coil and uncoil beneath his skin.

He opens his eyes and sees Ben's face above him.

Dean stills himself.

Ben grins at him. "Hey, Dad."

Dean's own grin is warm and a little crooked, and it even reaches his eyes. "Hey, kid."

Ben leans over and pecks Dean on the cheek, then pads off to the bathroom.

Dean just lays there, a dopey grin on his face, the skin on his cheek tingling a little where Ben kissed him.

_Dad. _

_He called me Dad._

_Damnn…_

He doesn't know how he would have reacted if Ben hadn't responded the way he had in the park. Doesn't know if he would have just sent the kid back to Lisa or made him take a dirt nap with Ryan and the others. It was always an option, something he didn't shy away from.

Dean usually runs from chick flick moments, but this one is private, all for himself, so what the hell.

Let it ride.

_**000000**_

_**TBC**_


	4. Blind Spot

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

You have no idea how much it pains me to have to say that.

**Lone Wolf Teaches Cub**

**Chapter 4**

_I gave you what you wanted, Sam, _the demon whispers, and the eyes are _all_ wrong. They aren't yellow, they're silver, with three small black dots floating where the pupils should be.

It's another waking nightmare, and Sam can only stare dully in the rear view mirror at the frail little old woman sitting in the backseat of Dad's truck. Each time he sees her she loses a little more of herself each time. She's naked now, not a stitch on. The skin around her eyes and mouth is bluish grey and rotting, and the bones of her shoulder jut up sharply through her thin, tight skin. Sam's grateful the top of the seat blocks the view of the rest of her body from him.

Sometimes Sam can see right through her, but he's not fooled by that. She can be solid enough when she wants to be. He's got the scars on his back to prove it.

They're at a truck stop just inside the Indiana border; Bobby and John are inside getting food to go. Sam knew she was coming; he always feels sluggish just before she makes an appearance. Sometimes he wants to pull John aside and tell him about her, but Sam can never bring himself to do that. John's eyes are wounded enough these days as it is. Sam doesn't think he could stand it if Dad looked at him the way he does whenever Dad mentions Dean.

_You young people nowadays, you don't appreciate a good deal when you see one_, the demon purrs inside Sam's head.

The day he performed the ritual he'd been dropped off at Pastor Jim's place for safekeeping while John and Dean went off to hunt a barghast. It was a vicious bastard, and John and Dean both agreed that Sam would be better off as far away from the hunt as possible.

He was just a kid then, nine years old, and he'd found the spell in one of Pastor Jim's books in that bookcase in the far corner. Sam hadn't realized at the time that the damn spell would turn out to be so much freakin' trouble. It was supposed to be a simple linking ritual.

He just wanted to be able to know where Dean would be at all times.

"You gotta pay more attention to what's goin' on around you, Sammy." Dean told him the night before. "Dad and I won't always be around."

Sam didn't like that. Didn't like that _at all_.

He wouldn't let himself think about why he cared so much where _Dean_ was, and not Dad. All Sam knew was that Dad had broken so many promises, wasn't there when he said he would be, expected him to obey without asking any questions.

Dean was there for him, all the time. He read to him, he raised him. Sam could cry in front of _Dean_, not Dad. Dad would always ignore him, but Dean would get this sad look on his face like he would've given anything to make it right, to make it all better. He tried.

That was more than enough for Sam.

The ritual was a fairly simple one, and he even got ahold of some of Dean's hair from his comb. Sticking himself with that silver knife really didn't hurt all that much. Squeezing drops of blood out onto that symbol he'd chalked in on the floor did the trick. He got the lines right the very first time.

Mrs. Sanders was Pastor Jim's church secretary, and to this day Sam still remembers the stricken look on her face when he turned around and saw her standing there. Sam still remembers the blank look of horror on her face as the dark smoky thing curved through the air towards her and settled underneath her skin. He was little then, but he was also John Winchester's son, and he immediately realized exactly what he'd done.

Pastor Jim always did wonder why Mrs. Sanders left that day and never came back.

Dean was royally pissed when Sam told him, but he promised not to tell Dad. Dean never did.

_You summoned me when you were little, and I linked the two of you together so that you could always know where your big brother was. Poor scared little boy. Now you don't like what you see, and you want me to take my gift back?_

_Please, _Sam croaks silently, hoarsely._ I'll do anything…_

She laughs, a wet gurgling sound that makes Sam's insides clench. _You don't have anything I want, boy. Besides, if I took it back, I'd miss out on the show. That brother of yours is a masterpiece. A symphony of grace and violence. I like watching him. And it'll be so much fun when you three finally catch up with him. You're not getting cold feet, are you, Sam? You haven't forgotten pretty little Jess, have you?_

_Shut up._

_I mean, you always thought ol' Yellow Eyes was the one that killed her, and now you find out all along that it was Dean…_

_Shut up._

_And deep down inside, you know he actually did you a favor, Sammy. Jess wasn't what she seemed to be. Lot of darkness in that girl. She was gonna break you. Put you down on your knees…_

_---I said shut the hell up! _Sam screams inside his head. A thin crack appears in the back window, stitches diagonally across the glass.

The demon laughs and winks at him as she disappears with her stolen bag of bones and flesh.

When John and Bobby return with the take out food fifteen minutes later, John quirks an eyebrow as he settles behind the wheel and glances in the rear view mirror.

Shit happens around Sam. Now more than ever. John doesn't like it, and he doesn't really accept it, but he picks his battles carefully. He doesn't look at Sam and he doesn't say a word.

Neither does Bobby.

_**000000**_

She sees right through him. Always did, even when she was a baby. That small round baby face would turn red, those little fists would ball up, and she'd scream and shake until her momma took her back into her arms. Kid wasn't buying that fake friendly uncle act of his, not for one minute.

Alicia's all twisted around its little finger. Doesn't want to admit the girl's an unnatural freak like her daddy. The rest of the family isn't that gullible, thank God. Gordon's not the only one who takes precautions.

He thinks of her as an It. Not a she. Alicia named her Rosalee, after her favorite aunt. Gordon wanted to slap the hell out of Alicia when he first heard that, but he pasted that fake smile on his face and said the appropriate things about how nice that was and all that.

He's more cautious around Rosalee nowadays. She's seven now, and he wears a shielding amulet all the time when he's around her. It seems to be working. She gives him this puzzled, wide-eyed look sometimes, like she can't quite figure him out. He hates that he had to go to that witch for that, but hey, in this line of work you do what you have to do.

She looks at him with her daddy's eyes: wide and impossibly green, framed by those ridiculously long dark lashes. The rest of her is Alicia: long wavy auburn hair, smooth caramel colored skin.

Those demon eyes of hers are pure Dean. No telling what unnatural freak ability is hiding out in that twisted brain of hers. Sometimes when Gordon looks at her, he has to stop himself from pulling out his favorite machete and using it on her.

He's too much of a hunter to do that, of course, at least, not until it's time. She'll be useful as bait, and if he has to hurt her a little to draw Dean near, well, so be it. It's an old hunter's trick, ancient, blooding the bait, making it squeal a little, so that the predator will draw near.

Dean _will_ come for her. Gordon knows it as surely as he knows his own name.

_**000000**_

Mary doesn't say much these days. She shows up in John's dreams, holds him as he buries his face in her neck. She brushes slim fingers across his flushed brow, and John's still amazed at how much Dean looks like her, his coloring, his eyes and his mouth.

John wonders how he can still love Mary and hate his eldest son so much.

_**000000**_

They follow the sun and warm temperatures, and it's as much for Dean's benefit as it is for Ben. Dean spent most of last year prowling through the Pacific Northwest. He crossed the border into Canada a few times on business, and now he's sick and damn tired of cold weather.

Besides, there are a few hunters up there who would like to have a little talk with Dean about the incident at that truck stop up near Vancouver, and he's frankly done discussing _that_, now and forever.

Anyway, it was one against eight. Dean was the one who walked away.

They crossed the Arizona state line three days after seeing that bitch Ruby. On the way in Dean notices money's running low and he stops in Drury Pointe, this little tourist trap about eighty miles out from Flagstaff.

Ben quirks an eyebrow at him as they pull up in front of the building. Ben's a fast learner, and Dean likes to think he got that from his mom, Lisa. The only other kid Dean knew who could watch that intently and learn that quickly was Sam.

The building is one of those modern metal boxes with an open faced front and lots of glass. Anyone could see straight into the place from the sidewalk: cops, public, anyone. Not a lot of blind spots, or places to hide.

The better to case the place out.

The better to see robberies in progress.

The first summer he'd been with Ruby she lent him out to this heist team for a bank job in Flagstaff. The target was some arcane objects stashed away in safe deposit boxes in the vault. Ruby was actually surprised at how compliant Dean was. He didn't let on that he actually enjoyed the work and he got off on the thrill of the heist. He certainly didn't tell her that he thought the whole experience could come in handy later.

That was due to John Winchester's training, the idea that everything could be useful somewhere down the line. Dean doesn't regret anything he's done while he's been on the road,but he knows that he owes Dad for_ that_, at least.

Dean's green eyes darken nearly to black as he bounces a mental pulse through the windows.

Nobody on the street notices. Nobody but Ben.

The first pulse Dean sends out locates all the surveillance cameras. It comes back to him and he can clearly see the entire system. The second pulse quietly fuses the cameras into slags of metal and plastic.

Ben scrambles out of the Impala when Dean turns back and nods at him. Dean smiles a little at the kid's eagerness. Ben's slightly wide-eyed, staring intently, and he falls in next to Dean as they walk into the bank.

It's that mid-morning lull during the week. Lunch time is still two and a half hours away, and the seniors and the other early risers have already come and gone. Sweet.

The folks behind the counter look up as Dean walks in. He pulls everyone's attention towards him. Ben is a blank spot in their perception. No one will even remember that he was there.

Dean smiles at them, bright and dazzling, and they don't stand a chance. He's velvety smooth, no freakin' doubt about it. He growls at them in that low, deep voice of his: unmarked bills, tens and twenties would be fine, and please, no dye packs.

The bank manager and several of the tellers grin like idiots as they try to hand off several bags of money to him. Several of the women stare at Dean hungrily and he knows they'd like nothing better than to strip down to their underwear and climb up onto the countertop.

He's tempted, but…not in front of the kid.

_And yes, I would very much love to spend some time with you, darlin', but right now I got a schedule to keep._

_Maybe next time, sunshine, _Dean tells the male bank manager. _You're friggin' special. _

They forget about the panic buttons underneath the counters, and calling the cops is the last thing on everybody's mind.

Dean takes several bundles of money from one bag and slips the money into his jacket pockets. No sense in being greedy. They can always get more. This is a training exercise for Ben, more than anything else.

The bank employees seem disappointed when Dean pushes the rest back across the counter at them. He doesn't leave any fingerprints on the cloth bags and five minutes after Dean and Ben pull off in the Impala everyone inside will remember only what Dean wants them to remember in the first place.

The security guard holds the door open as Dean and Ben leave. Younger guy, just as easily influenced as the rest of them, and his hand never moves towards the gun on his hip.

"Afternoon, Mr. Trump," the security dude says reverently, and Dean just smiles and nods as he strides out the door. Ben follows obediently in Dean's wake, and the kid scowls all bad-ass at the security dude, just to keep in practice.

_These are not the 'droids you're looking for…_

That cracks Dean up. Every single time.

_**000**_

The Fairfield Lodge off Interstate 80 looks like a good place to stop for the night.

As soon as he steps out onto the parking lot Dean knows they are _soo_ screwed.

"Ben, get--- "

Something sharp needles its way into Dean's left shoulder. He sways on his feet and when he takes his next breath the connection between body and mind is severed. Everything's gone soft, dreamlike. Suddenly nothing much matters.

"Hello, Dean."

It takes him a while to focus. He nods in slow motion. "Ellen."

"Keep your hands where I can see them, Dean." Ellen Harvelle smiles all thin-lipped and tense at Ben. It's supposed to be reassuring but Ben scowls at her. "You too, honey."

"I'm _not_ your honey," Ben growls, deepening his voice, and Ellen laughs.

"Gordon…around?" Dean says, frowning. He feels funny all over. Weak and numb and tingly all at the same time.

_Tingly?_ he thinks muzzily to himself. _Damn, Winchester, you are such a girl. _

Ellen shrugs as she pulls the handcuffs out of her jacket pocket. "This is between you and me, Dean.We got a lot of catching up to do."

"You're…shielded. Damn." Dean mutters. Ellen turns him around and pushes him roughly up against the side of the Impala. He wants to turn around and knock the hell out of her. He wants to, but he can't.

"I owe you one, you inhuman son-of-a-bitch, for what you did to my daughter." Ellen's none too gentle as she jerks Dean's arm backwards. She cuffs his right wrist, then the left.

"What… I...did?" Dean seems confused. "Never…laid a…hand on her."

"That was the whole point," Ellen hisses. She spins him around, sinks her fingernails into the rim of his right ear and pulls his head down to her eye level.

Dean blinks at her dazedly.

"Jo loved you. And you ignored her. She changed herself because she figured you'd love her then. My baby girl's messed herself up, and it's all because of you."

"Got a violin…in the trunk," Dean slurs. He smirks lazily. "Lemme play ya a sad song…."

Ellen viciously digs her nails into Dean's earlobe. He barely feels it, and she twists harder. "That smart mouth of yours will be the death of you yet. I'll see to it. Went down to Mexico a while back. Learned a few tricks on how to deal with bastards like you down there."

She glances at Ben. "I'll leave the boy here. Call John and Sam, let them know where he is."

Famous last words.

Ellen doesn't even have time to take a final breath as her heart stops. Completely. Suddenly. No second heartbeats, no time for anything else. Ben slides over the front seat and is out the door pulling at Dean's arm before Ellen even hits the ground.

"Come on, Dad. Come on. Wake up." Dean's eyes close as he slumps down, his chin almost to his chest. He does a slow motion slide down the side of the Impala, and that's definitely _not_ good.

Ben wants to pull that damn dart out of Dean's shoulder but he's afraid he'll hurt him even more.

"Fuck it." Ben curses under his breath. He reaches around and yanks the tranquilizer dart out and flings it away into the parking lot.

"Language," Dean mumbles softly, and Ben flinches.

He's forgetting something. Forgetting…

Keys. For the cuffs.

"Come on, Ben," he mutters to himself.

Ben turns to Ellen's body, and that's when he sees this black guy walking towards him. Big guy. Athletic. Bald, with a goatee. Casual dress, but expensive. The man stares at them all calm and steady and the hair on the back of Ben's head stands straight up. Something in this guy's manner screams _hunter_ or _cop._

Ben backs up against Dean. Dean's out of it.

Ben concentrates on the dude's heart, should be simple, right, and he doesn't feel sorry for _her_, she was gonna hurt Dad, and this guy's got a gun, Ben can see it underneath his jacket.

The black dude doesn't keel over. He's still pretty damned healthy. Ben tries again.

Nothing. Panic sets in, sharp needles of fear clawing up Ben's spine….

They are both _sooo _screwed.

The black man stops about five feet away, and he kneels down at eye level with Ben.

"What you got doesn't work on me," he says calmly.

Ben frowns as he concentrates again.

Nothing.

"Relax, kid," the black dude rumbles. "I'm a friend of your Dad's. Name's Hendrickson."

_**000**_

Yep, I finally got around to updating this one. Does any body out there want to see me continue it? Drop me a line and let me know what you think.


	5. Sea Changes

A/N: There's cussing in this one. I blame John and Bobby. Also, I've done research on Bobby's wife's first name. Couldn't find it anywhere, so for the purposes of this story, and in this AU I have given the unfortunate Mrs. Robert Singer a first name.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

_**000000**_

_**Lone Wolf Teaches Cub, part 5**_

Momma's dead. Jo felt her leave.

Momma's dead, just like Daddy.

Jo makes a soft sound deep in her throat. She wants to cry but she's not even sure if she's doing it right.

She gets a little frustrated then, and her fingernails darken as they lengthen into long sharp claws. The hair on her arms grows long, dark and coarse, but it's not time,_ not yet_, so she wills everything back to normal.

All she wanted was for Dean to love her. That was all. She loved him from the moment she laid eyes on him. Beautiful wild boy with that crooked grin of his, but when he looked at her she could tell he didn't feel anything for _her_. _Nothing at all._ She just wasn't his type, and it was _so_ unfair.

Momma didn't understand, and neither did anyone else. "You're so pretty," Ellen told her. "You'll find someone else. He's not the only man out there."

But he was the only one she_ wanted_.

The world became dull around her, and Jo lost interest. Food didn't taste right, and she just didn't enjoy things like she used to. Hustling dim-witted hunters out of their hard-earned cash just didn't have the appeal it once did.

Happiness had broad shoulders and slim hips, dark blond hair and wide green eyes with a mischievous glint in them. He stayed out of her reach and it wasn't fair and she ached so bad inside she could hardly stand it.

She went for long walks down the highway from the Roadhouse when she wasn't tending bar, and one day she realized that she didn't care if she got hit by one of the oncoming cars. It didn't matter. Nothing did anymore.

She didn't even notice the blonde woman wearing the brown leather jacket and the jeans walking in the field alongside her at first. They walked about half a mile, parallel to each other.

The blonde had a wistful look on her face, and Jo felt like she'd known her from somewhere else. She'd been having these weird dreams lately, and she was sure the blonde woman had been in some of them. It wasn't long before they found themselves sitting underneath a tree nearby talking like they'd known each other for years.

"Maybe you should make some changes in yourself," her new friend said calmly. "I think I know just what he'd like. Men see better than they think, you know that. I can help you if you'll just trust me."

"Okay," Jo felt light-headed. A part of her wanted to get up and walk away. She had a bad feeling about this, deep down inside, but she didn't care. "My name's Jo."

The blonde smiled as she stuck out her hand. "Ruby."

Ruby doesn't make a sound as she _comes_ into the room. She does that a lot, and Jo has gotten so she doesn't even notice. It doesn't bother her. Ruby is her friend. Jo rocks back and forth as Ruby puts her arms around her and hugs her.

"See?" Ruby says softly. "I told you. That's why I didn't want you to go with your mom when she went to see Dean. I knew this would happen. I didn't want you to get hurt. It was her time to go, that's all."

Jo stops rocking and leans into Ruby's touch. She whines a little and her ears twitch at the sound of Ruby's voice. Ruby's soft voice twists its way inside Jo's head, and Jo stills herself as she listens.

"You can still have Dean. The two of you can be together forever if you help me with him. You're better the way you are now. You can track him _anywhere_. The first thing you have to do, though, is get ahold of that awful little boy he's with. _He's_ the one who killed your Momma, not Dean. Dean will follow you when you take the boy. We'll go to our special place, and then we can talk to Dean. Change his mind, make him see how badly he treated you. It'll all come right in the end."

Jo nods. Her eyes turn reddish-amber, and Ruby smiles a little.

_**000000**_

"You got somethin' to say to me, Singer, spit it out, then. Stop wasting my damn time." There's a cold glint in John's eyes, and Bobby relaxes a little. John's stone cold _sober_.

_You brought that monster into my house. Underneath my roof. I want you and yours to be just as fucked up as me and mine are, _Bobby thinks to himself.

Some days Bobby wishes that Lila had died instead, like the twins did. That would have been a kindness.

He can see faint glimpses of the woman he loved in that broken shell Dean left behind, but lately Lila always stares at a person's eyes first. If she doesn't find what she's looking for she promptly loses interest and retreats even further into her own little world.

They made a note in her chart, all right, but the hospital still screwed up. One day nurse Myra Clarke walked into Lila's room. Lila took one look at Nurse Clarke's wide green eyes and screamed and screamed until the nurses sedated her and strapped her down to the bed.

John turns and stares at cabin Number six. They're at the Green Mountain Rest Stop just off Interstate 11. It's only four thirty in the afternoon, for God's sake, and they've already stopped for the night. Early. _Too damned early. _

Bobby motions for John to follow, and John steps away. Away from the Impala and the front door of cabin six. _Away from Sam._

Sam's inside, curled up asleep on one of the beds now. Twenty minutes ago he staggered out of the truck, pale and lethargic, barely able to stand, after that noonday spell or fit, or whatever the hell that was that cracked the rear window of John's truck.

They're burning daylight, wasting time, when they could be further on down the road, on Dean's trail, and it's obvious to Bobby big John doesn't like it. Not. One. Fucking. Bit.

This John, the one standing here today, has the solemn, dangerous look of the old John Winchester, the one Bobby knew in the beginning, before all this ungodly mess with his damn boys started. Bobby knows he has more of a chance, knows John will hear him out. He could have approached John when he was drunk, but then that would have left room for regrets afterwards. John could have fooled himself, claimed he wasn't in his right mind when he agreed to Bobby's proposal. This way, there's no going back.

Bobby shrugs casually. "I'm just saying, John. Your two boys…they're close. Sam thinks the world of Dean. Always has. After everything Dean's done, probably still _does_. Hell, it's understandable. Young kid looks up to his big brother."

_Go slow now_, Bobby thinks to himself. Then: "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, Sam doesn't _want_ to catch Dean?"

"Dean killed Sam's girl," John grits out, but Bobby sees shadows in the other man's eyes. _Nothing you haven't thought of yourself, you bastard_, Bobby thinks to himself. He lets the realization sink in a little further before he answers. It's out there now, out in the open. Can't be ignored anymore.

"Dean's not human, John. Maybe never was. Not your fault. Not Mary's either." _Hell yeah it is_, but Bobby's not about to say _that_ out loud either.

He waits. He moves a little away from John, and when he glances back John moves towards him.

"We've been chasing Dean for over a year. Now it's not Sam's fault, but we have to try something else. Using Sam and that link of his," Bobby shakes his head slowly, regretfully. "That dog can't hunt. Not anymore."

John glances up sharply, then steadies himself. Bobby stares out at the traffic as it moves down the highway in front of the cabin. He pretends he's picking his words very carefully, when he already knows _what_ he's going to say and _how_ he's going to say it all along.

"We have to try something else before Dean gathers up any more of his damn kids. That Braeden woman, this Ben's mom, Dean let _her_ live, but who's to say he did that just because he plans on using her as some kinda broodmare or something later on?"

"And how the hell do you know he left her alive?" John snaps, unblinking.

Bobby shrugs. "Had one of my contacts look in on her. She's fine. There's got to be a reason Dean did that."

John is still, still as death. Waiting.

"Look all I'm saying is we have to use what we've got. You trained Dean. You know him. He could've killed Sam through the link at any time, but he didn't. He still cares for Sam. We can get Dean. Stop chasing him and make him come to us. Because we have Sam."

John nods. Bobby knows he's got more than a better than average chance now. John hasn't told him to go fuck himself. Hasn't walked off in a huff, snarling.

John waits and he listens.

_**000000**_

"…wake up…."

Whatever this is keeps pushing and pulling at him. He aches all over with this godawful metallic taste in his mouth. Head feels like he's just gone ten rounds with a cinderblock and he moves before he even thinks about it which lets whoever this is know that he's coming awake instead of playing possum.

…_stupidmovefreakin'stupid…_

He's still woozy from whatever that bitch pumped him with. He's not thinking, just reacting, and his wrists hurt and he can't move his arms from behind his back and something's pressing into him, shaking him.

"Dad? Dad!"

Dean's head thumps back against something hard and solid. The sudden sharp pain finally penetrates the haze and really pisses him off.

His brain finally catches up with the rest of him, and Dean groans out loud. He opens his eyes, and everything's a blurry, smeared mess. Everything hurts like a bitch too, but he recognizes Ben's voice and untenses a little.

"Dad, wake up! Come on, _wake up! She_ was going to hurt you. _He's_ got a gun." Ben says stubbornly. Dean blinks and that double image of Ben finally, painfully, sharpens into just one Ben. The kid's got this mulish look on his face like he thinks killing this guy would be a mighty fine idea. It's as fine a bitchface as Sam ever wore.

_Kid's got my back_, Dean thinks dazedly. _That's my boy…_

"Look, Dean, you gotta call your kid off," the black dude grumbles. Dean squints at him. He looks familiar but the memory's hazy and Dean can't put a name with the face. "He won't let me near you and we gotta go. _Now_. I put the dead woman in the bushes and your boy's already tried to kill me three times already."

_Then why the hell aren't you dead already? _Dean stares at him, blinking slowly. _Third time should be the damn charm…_

Dean scowls as he reaches out with his mind, senses that pentagram tattoo above the guy's heart, the wards about his entire body…

"Hey, Dean. Easy. Don't do anything _stupid_ now, y'hear? It's _me_. It's Victor Hendricksen. Use that empty head of yours for once and _think_, damn it."

The crap Ellen pumped into him is scrambling his brain. His head aches like a bitch, makes it hard to think, but then he remembers.

_Hendricksen. _

__

_Victor Hendricksen. _

_FBI._

_No, wait, that's not right. He's ex. Quit the Bureau over a year ago..._

"Vic?" Dean wheezes.

"Finally." Hendricksen relaxes. "So who else would be out tracking your ugly ass?"

"I have a rabid fan base," Dean coughs. "Hey, who you callin' ugly? Break any mirrors lately?"

"Huh." Hendricksen snorts. "You wish."

"D-Dad?" Ben slides in closer, leans into Dean's right shoulder. He's steadier than he sounds right now.

"Ben, he's a friend of mine. Stand down, son. It's okay."

Ben nods. He frowns up at Hendricksen and the boy moves far enough away so that Vic can move in and unlock the cuffs.

Dean groans out loud as he flexes his arms in front of him. He puts his feet underneath him and slides up the side of the Impala. She feels solid, heavy and reliable at his back. Ben's pressed against him, a sturdy, solid presence, and Hendricksen's hand is on his elbow, steadying him on his feet.

"Hate to break up this Hallmark moment, but we gotta _go_, gents."

"Car?" Dean barks. They are sure as hell not leaving his baby on _this_ damn parking lot.

"Sure," Victor shrugs. "Mine's stolen. I can leave it."

The voice inside Dean's head cuts through all his defenses. It's the only voice that ever could.

_Deaannn…_

Dean freezes in place. He stares at the ground, his eyes wide. Blank.

_Dean, p-please…_

Hendricksen's struck by how green Dean's eyes are right now. They're practically _glowing. _It's all Ben and Hendricksen can do but stand there and watch.

Dean can't see anything. He can't hear anything.

Someone's inside his head, confused, lost and alone.

Sam.

_Dean, please, help me…_

_**000000**_

Thanks, Phoebe, for using the phrase "rabid fan base" in one of your reviews. Will update again later on this week.


	6. He Ain't Heavy

_**A/N:**_ Well, what can I say? Yeah, it's been a while since I updated this one. I finally have a computer at home, with home internet soon to follow.

_**Disclaimer:**_ Don't own John, Dean, Sam, Hendrickson, Ben, Ruby, Jo or Bobby.

_**Chapter 6 - He Ain't Heavy…**_

**_000_**

Dean groans out loud as something punches through his side, bright and sharp. He knows it's not a fatal wound. It's a through and through. The kind of wound a hunter would inflict on bait, draw just enough blood to flow, make the bait bleed and scream, just enough to draw in the one they were really after all along.

_S-Sammy?_

Sam bleeds, and Dean does too.

Dean knows he's standing upright, can still feel the sunlight on his face and the Impala's reassuring bulk solid at his back. He can hear Ben and Hendrickson's heartbeats nearby, nervous, fast. But he can also feel ropes tied tight around his wrists and ankles.

Dean can't tell where he ends and Sam begins.

Sam's sitting down in a chair. There's a sharp pain in the inside of his left elbow, and Dean's familiar enough with drugs and syringes. Sometimes Ruby went for the basics, relied on drugs to keep him docile when she couldn't be bothered to whip up a spell or a potion.

Sam remembers the look Dad gave him as he and Bobby tightened the ropes. They looked at him like he was a fugly.

Looked at him like he was _Dean_.

…_hurt…me…_

_Who --?_

_..D-Dad…and…and… Bobby… _

John's hand slams into the side of Sam's face, so fast that Dean doesn't even remember seeing him move. The air around him lights up, bright white with stars and pain and a feeling of loss that rises to the surface, shit he never dealt with before and never ever wanted to deal with, but it's here now, and he can't avoid it, and he can't stop it.

Sam's lips move, but the voice is deeper, heavier.

_Dean. _

Dean freezes in place, and all he can do is breathe.

Dad. Don't answer him. Don't…

_You can stop playing dumb, Dean. I know you can hear me through the link._

_Yes sir._

Dean can almost see John nod, satisfied. _All right then. _

_Please…Dad…_

_We're headed back to Bobby's place. You got twenty four hours to get there, Dean. One day. You can make it if you don't fuck around. _

John presses a cloth over Sam's nose and mouth. Dean smells damp cotton and the smell's sharp and heavy at the same time. Sam takes a deep hitching breath, and Dean does the same.

And then there's nothing but soft deep blackness.

_**000**_

Dean comes awake all at once in Suite 2B of the Voyager Motor Lodge. Head's pounding fit to bust, and there's that metallic taste in his mouth like he's been sucking on a mouthful of dirty pennies. First thing he thinks about is _Sam_ and _twenty four hours, _and_ how long was I out?_

He immediately sits up in bed, swings around and plants both feet on the floor, all in one smooth motion. His head hangs down, and his eyes aren't even open yet. Scares the hell out of Ben, but Hendrickson's seen it before, so Dean's sudden movement doesn't spook him.

"I…I gotta go."

"Have you lost your friggin' mind?"

Dean looks horribly blank for a moment, then his features smooth out. "Maybe."

This is something new. Hendrickson's never seen Dean look this way, suddenly young and unsure. Vulnerable. He remembers some of the surveillance camera footage, silently compares that to the very first time he ever laid eyes on Dean. As impressive as the kid was on video, he was a force of nature in person. But not now.

"He's m'brother, Vic. I can't leave him hangin' like that."

_Took 'em long enough_, Hendrickson thinks to himself. Winchester and Singer finally figured out exactly _who _Dean's weakness was, and now all they have to do is reel Dean in.

_Dumb bastards._

Ben orbits Dean, a wide-eyed bundle of nerves and worry and concern. His dad shouldn't look that way, and it might be as irrational as hell, but judging from the dirty looks Ben keeps giving him the kid blames Hendrickson for that.

"Hey…Winchester?" Dean looks away, stares at the floor.

Hendirckson huffs softly. "You're kidding me, right? You show up, and your dad is gonna kill you. Slow and painful. Singer's been gunning for you ever since you fried his wife's brain years ago. Doesn't matter that you couldn't control your abilities then. They're not gonna welcome you back with open arms."

Hendrickson leans in close, knowing full well that Dean doesn't like that sort of thing. "They are gonna slaughter you, stupid. You have that effect on people. Hell, I tried to kill you a couple of times myself, and it was nothing personal. I was just doing my job."

Dean's face changes, goes from unsure to stubborn in the space of two seconds, and right now Victor Hendrickson, former Special Agent of the Eff Bee Eye, just doesn't give a rat's ass. "Why the hell do you care?" Dean snarls, and Hendrickson thinks to himself, _That's better. Better mad than depressed._

Hendrickson shrugs. "You still owe me. Big time. Saved your ass that time, or have you forgotten? Think I'm gonna waste your marker like that?"

"Doesn't change a damn thing. I still gotta go."

Hendrickson sighs. He gets up and goes over to the window. "I know that, dumb ass." He looks out at the traffic passing by on the highway. Broad open daylight, normal everyday stuff. Normal, shit. What a difference a year makes. He was blind back then. Secure in his own little world, before he found out that there were such things as demons and men like Dean Winchester.

"Ben?" Dean doesn't miss the way Ben snaps to attention just by hearing his name. _Just like me and Dad. _

_Damn._

_**000**_

Jo crouches in the bushes and breathes in deeply. She takes in all the scents. Dean's, of course, but he's gone by the time she slinks onto the parking lot. She settles down and waits. It'll be dark soon. Jo likes the dark better.

She smells gunpowder and silver. That black man in the motel room and that little bastard that killed her mother are still in the room, but they're not comfortable with each other. She can feel the tension between the two of them. The man is watchful, and the boy is still upset.

Well. Soon as night falls she'll give him something to be upset about.

_**000**_

Down the road from the motel flashing lights bloom red in Dean's rear view mirror. He curses to himself as he pulls onto the shoulder of the road. He's not driving the Impala; this is a one way trip, and there's no way he's going to risk his girl like that. He stole the Camry off the motel parking lot three minutes ago and he knows that no one saw him when he took it.

Dean glances in the rear view mirror as the cop on the driver's side gets out. The cop on the passenger side just sits there.

Officer Friendly is a huge young black guy who looks like he can bench press three hundred pounds with no problem. "Will you step out of the car, please, sir?'

Dean wearily shakes his head as he does as he's told.

"That's a new look for you, isn't it?" he says flatly. "What the hell do you want?"

The young cop's brown eyes gleam dark yellow. "Do I have to want something from you? So I look in on you from time to time. So what? You're still _my_ son, y'know. _Mine._ _Not_ John Winchester's."

"Where I come from fathers don't trade their children to demons just to settle a debt."

Azazel rolls his eyes. "Oh, right. Where you come from fathers use one child as bait to draw in the other child. Sam's tied to a chair right now, and they beat him just to get your attention. How's _that _working out for you, huh?"

"I don't have time for this." No sense in even asking how word got out. Sometimes Dean thinks he's got his own website with a hidden camera on the 'net. Dean turns away, opens up the door and slides behind the wheel. He puts his hand on the ignition, but he doesn't turn the key.

He sits there wondering why he _doesn't_ turn the key.

He's got options. He could kill Azazel's host for starters, just to piss Ol'Yeller off. He could turn around and go back to the motel, back to Ben and Hendrickson. He coulddo that. But he _can't_.

_Dean…please…help me…_

Azazel puts one hand on the door of the car as he leans down. "That business with Ruby is old news. Ancient history, sport. You still gonna hold that against me? Look at all the experiences you had while you were with Ruby, all the abilities you found out you had, just hidden away."

Dean stares at him in disbelief. "You would've wasted your life pretending to be just one of the boys, and sooner or later Papa John would've discovered that his good little soldier wasn't one hundred percent human. Johnny tends to be quite the drama queen about stuff like that."

Dean just sits there.

"You're free now. You can go anywhere, do anything you want to. And now you're going to throw all that away, and for what? _Sam Winchester_? Spare me. Thought you were smarter than _that_, Dean. He's not our kind."

Dean turns on the ignition.

"Are you_ that_ afraid of being alone?"

Dean's eyes flare yellow, then, just as quickly, back to green again. Azazel doesn't even flinch as the bones in the cop's right wrist break like dry brittle twigs.

"If I see you again," Dean says slowly. "I'll kill you. Understand?"

He doesn't wait around for an answer.

Azazel stands there, dressed in the young cop's body, and he steps back and watches as Dean pulls off. The bones in the cop's right wrist knit back together easily.

The Demon tries not to grin as he walks back to the car. Dean could be something of a drama queen himself at times. A broken wrist is a small price to pay. Hell, he got off easy.

Azazel likes the feel of the cop's body. That janitor's body is a comfortable fit, his favorite host, in fact, but wearing this one's skin is like driving a high performance car. Damn shame he won't be able to use it for a while longer, but he's feeling pretty good right now, so he decides to let the cop live after this. After all, he might be able to use him again.

"Well?"

The voice that comes out of the male cop's mouth is young, female. Those blue eyes turn stark white.

Lillith nods. "I like the way the boy looks. We have a deal."

_**000**_

_**Next update this Saturday. **_


	7. Dean's Backstory: Problem Child

A/N: This is the first part of a "Lone Wolf" double header, and Phoebe, it's all **your** fault_. So there._ I originally intended for this to be in _Who Made Who_, (which follows this bad boy), in which Dean thinks about his past life as he drives to Bobby's place, but as you can see this section took on a life of its own. It slowed the other chapter down and didn't really fit, but I still wanted to post it, so here it is separately. Ya'll got lucky this time. I posted _Who_ right after this one. I've also AU'd Ol'Yeller's kids in this one. They have special powers _and _black eyes when the mood hits them. This chapter's title taken from the AC/DC song of the same name.

Also, nineteen year old Dean cusses up a blue streak in this one. He has good reason to.

Disclaimer: I don't own Dean, Azazel, Sam, Rufus Turner or John Winchester, and it makes me very sad that I don't.

* * *

_**Chapter 7 – Dean's Backstory: Problem Child **_

_**THEN:**_

He was nineteen years old then, had a more than a few hunts under his belt, and the scars to prove it. Funny thing though, no matter how rough the patch job, no matter how severe the injury, Dean always healed up nicely.

A cracked rib here, a busted collarbone there, and that was just the stuff Dean let Dad know about.

It took a lot to get him really excited, but Dean had been secretly thrilled the day Dad tossed him the keys to the Impala. Next Dad handed him a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue scotch in a brown paper bag and told him to _fetch. _

Well, not in so many words, but that was the general idea.

Rufus Turner had intel and amulets they needed for a kitsune hunt, and Dean's orders were clear: drive to Canaan, Vermont, give Turner the scotch, get the books and the amulets and get back ASAP.

No problem. Dean didn't even know Turner, Dad did, so it wasn't like Dean was gonna hang around (in freakin' Vermont of all places) and form a meaningful relationship with the guy.

It was supposed to be simple.

That's the way major clusterfucks start out.

_**OOO**_

Dean was on Candid Camera the moment he pulled onto the road half a mile from the place. Afterwards he wasn't sure that he'd taken care of all the surveillance cameras. It didn't come back to bite him on the ass later on, so he figured he must have.

The moment he stepped on that porch he tensed up when he heard that clicking sound. That's never a good sound to hear, especially when approaching somebody who's working the hell out of the hunter/hermit lifestyle.

Dean looked up just as that security camera turned in his direction, so that sound must've been the mechanism in the swivel. Didn't make him feel any better. Hearing that voice growling and snapping at him through that intercom was just about what he expected. "What the hell do you want, boy?"

That was the high point of the conversation. _I don't know you _and _what the hell are you doing on my property _came next. It was the usual song and dance. Even mentioning Dad's name didn't do much good. Turner kept that damn door closed.

Dean stood there clutching the bottle of scotch in his right hand so tightly his fingers went numb. A tiny knot of tension formed behind his right eye, but he pasted that fake smile on his face and kept his voice quiet and polite.

_No sir, you don't know me. Yes sir, John Winchester's really my dad. _

_Fuck it._ He really felt like dropping the sociable act, putting his boot to that fuckin' door, and once he was inside pulling his Colt and busting a cap in Turner, just on GP. General Principle. Yep, sounded like a plan.

Only thing was, Dad would know, and Dean always thought it was better to keep his extracurricular activities to himself. He was pretty sure that Dad just wouldn't understand, and Dean really didn't need all that drama.

The funny thing about it (funny_ ironic_, not funny_ haha_) the end result was the same. Turner got dead alright, just not the way Dean expected.

That small bright pain behind Dean's right eye started throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Everything around him went yellow.

A sudden and all consuming pain spiked right between his eyes. Dean's back arched and the fingers of his right hand jerked open. The sound of the bottle of scotch breaking on the wooden planks was softer than it had a right to be.

Dean's knees buckled and he grunted as his left shoulder hit the door frame. If he hadn't turned his face to the side at the last moment he would've lip locked that shabby wooden door as he fell forward.

Turner's voice came through the intercom broken up, scratchy and warped. Dean felt his lips move but couldn't hear what he mumbled back. The air around him was too warm, too dry, like desert heat. Felt like static electricity sparking and nipping at his skin.

The door swung open and Turner's right hand fisted the front of Dean's jacket. He was stuck there and he couldn't understand why Turner stared at his eyes with this sly toothy grin like a junkyard dog who's about ready to bite and thoroughly enjoys the work.

Turner tightened his grip, hooked his thumb underneath Dean's chin and jerked his head up and forward. _Fuck you, _Dean thought groggily. _Never seen green eyes before, you sumbitch?_

Turner's eyes flicked upwards, and Dean's head wobbled as he jerkily followed Turner's line of sight.

There was a damn mirror set into the space over the door. It was 14 by 14 inches with some sort of sigil painted in red onto the mirror glass. Dean didn't recognize any of the symbols. That was bad enough, but that wasn't the worst part.

He saw a boy his age, short dark blond spiky hair, green fatigue jacket, black t shirt, faded blue jeans, scuffed brown work boots. His eyes were bright yellow in the mirror. The yellow highlighted his pale skin and that spray of freckles across his nose.

It took Dean a second to realize that he was staring at himself.

"Sorry, boy, sorry," Rufus was growling and he tried to sound sad but he sounded gleeful too. He killed fuglies for a living and now he had one caught like a bug on flypaper, right at his front door.

"Got to take care'a you now. Cain't let you run around loose pretendin' to be somethin' you ain't. Your daddy wouldn't want that for ya, now would he?" Rufus pulled his right hand from behind his back.

Dean stared fuzzily at the pistol. The gun was a large caliber sonofabitch, and it would be enough to put him into the ground. More than enough.

His fingers twitched uselessly. He had his Colt tucked into his back waistband, his knife in that holster on his right arm but he couldn't reach either one.

Turner's arm came up with the pistol in extreme slow motion. The large round black business end of the muzzle turned in Dean's direction.

_Not goin' out like this, not like this -- _

Dean's head filled with the color yellow and the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins, and his heart drummed away like Lars Ulrich on speed. Something shifted, awake and restless now, inside Dean's skull. It uncoiled and lashed out through his eyes like a snake striking out at a rabbit.

Turner's finger jerked on the trigger just as Dean's eyes went dark gold.

Rufus stiffened and his eyes got wide, then stayed that way, glazed over like a dead fish. A part of Dean understood immediately. He got it.

Dude was dead as a doornail.

_Good_.

It wasn't the first time Dean had killed a human, but it was the first time he'd done it just by thinking about it.

Something hard punched into his left shoulder. At first he thought Turner had somehow managed to hit him with his fist. The older hunter fell forward, limbs already stiffening, and when he fell he pushed Dean out from underneath that damned mirror trap.

Dean thumped onto the porch ass first so hard his jaws clicked together. Turner faceplanted into the wooden planks, heavy and boneless. Dude wasn't getting back up again. Ever.

"Hell of a day, huh, sport?" someone said cheerily, right behind him.

Dean's head whipped around so fast his neck hurt.

He saw the dude standing there in the front yard right in front of the steps. Tall, lanky, about Dad's age. Had a big wide grin on his face.

When he saw Dean's eyes that grin got even wider.

Another hunter then. Turner hadn't seemed like the sociable type, but Dean wasn't in the mood to sort things out peaceably. Fuck the neighbors. Turner lived in a fairly isolated part of town anyway.

Dean ignored the pain in his muscles, but it hurt like hell even more when he reached back to pull the Colt out of his waistband. There was a bloody hole about the size of a quarter in the left shoulder of his fatigue jacket, and all he could think of was that he was screwed, he couldn't go back to Dad and Sam looking like _that_.

Smiley Dude started walking towards him. He actually laughed when he saw Dean's gun.

Dean squeezed off one shot, saw the man stagger backwards as the round struck him a couple of inches below the collarbone. Smiley glanced down at the small hole like it was nothing, a piece of lint, maybe.

_Shit…demon or fugly…something…oh shit…_Dean's finger tightened on the trigger again.

"Children should be seen and not heard," Smiley growled roughly. He raised his right hand. "Little boys shouldn't play with big guns."

Something unseen cocooned Dean's body from head to toe. He jerked backwards and the back of his head connected solidly with the floorboards. Through the gathering darkness he felt the vibration of each footstep as the man walked up the stairs towards him.

Dean stared upward as Smiley knelt over him, and just before everything went totally black all he could see was the yellow of this bastard's eyes.

_**OOO**_

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

Something flicked at the tip of his nose. The pressure around his head, chest and throat eased a little. He was frozen in place everywhere else.

"Wake up, wavy gravy."

Dean kept his eyes closed.

"You know, kiddo, you're just wasting your time playing possum," this voice in his ear said cheerfully. "I _know_ you're awake. So why don't you just open those bright green peepers of yours and we'll have ourselves a civilized conversation? It's up to you. We can do this easy, or hard."

"Hard" probably involved severe damage to body parts he'd need if he wanted to kill this sonofabitch. What the hell.

Dean opened his eyes.

"Good boy."

He found himself sitting with his back against the far wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. They were inside Turner's house, in the front hallway, from the look of it. Turner was back inside too, but ol' Rufus had been dragged back inside. His carcass lay face down by the front door, which was closed now.

The place was a rat's warren of dusty books and cardboard boxes stacked up against walls, junk in every space. Charms and amulets hung from hooks in the ceiling. Azazel walked around easily, right underneath them, without any discomfort at all.

"Look at this mess. Guess the maid didn't come today, huh?" Azazel fingered a bundle of dried herbs that hung just inside the front door. "Angelica root. Garlic." He sniffed at the bundle, wrinkled his nose up and snickered. "Something like that doesn't work on something like me."

"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled. He gave a muffled grunt as his mouth was forced shut by something he couldn't see.

"Let me save ya the trouble, okay?" The Demon rolled his eyes. "This is the part where you say that you know who I am and you're going to kill me as soon as you get loose." He waved his right hand in a dismissive gesture. "Blah blah blah blah."

Dean glared at him.

"Ol' Johnny still hasn't told you the real story about Mary? That figures. Well, you wouldn't believe it if you heard it from me. I think it's best you find out for yourself."

Azazel picked up one of the books from a nearby stacked and idly leafed through it. "I've been keeping my eye on you, Dean. I like what I see. You got layers, kid. You're bright, but you don't like to show it. Lethal, too. Those cops down in Florida didn't have a clue it was you."

Dean kept his face carefully blank.

"I like large families, you know? The more the merrier. My other special kids? They're all black-eyed. But you, sunshine, you're special. You're the only one I know of who's got my eyes. Chip off the old block!" Azazel closed the book and slipped it into his jacket. "Don't think Rufus will mind if I borrow this."

_That's it? _Dean huffed silently. _Luke, I am your father?_ He rolled his eyes. He didn't know if the bastard was reading his mind; he hoped he was. _I gotta tell ya, as demon mind fucks go, this is a pretty sorry one. On a scale from one to ten? Minus twenty. That crap with the mirror was a trick. Had to be._

Azazel appeared not to notice. "She kept me away from you for the first four years. Used sigils and runes." He eyed this one triangle shaped amulet that hung over the stairs. "Your momma really knew her stuff. Then one day she got a little sloppy. Guess she got preoccupied, what with Sammy and all." Azazel shrugged. "Things got a little out of hand."

He totally ignored that murderous glint in Dean's eyes.

"Well, that's ancient history, now, isn't it?" Azazel walked over and sat right down on the floor next to Dean. "I'm on a tight schedule here, but we can rap for a few minutes. Get to know each other a little better."

Dean couldn't say a word, but he said it with his eyes: _Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. If you think I believe this bullshit you're shoveling, you better think again._

Azazel stared at Dean, his head tilted to one side, and his expression was quiet, thoughtful. His eyes roamed over Dean's body and finally settled on Dean's face. There was that grin again, wide and jovial.

"So, how they hanging, buddy? How's life treating you?"

There they were, sitting there in a dead hunter's house, mere feet away from the body, and the damn Demon was shooting the breeze, grinning at Dean like they were long lost buddies.

Dean stared at him like he had lost his friggin' fugly mind.

"Since you're still a little riled up from dealing with old Rufus over there, this conversation is gonna be a bit one-sided, boychick. I think it's best if I talk and you listen. Like I said, I'm on the clock. Just wanna give you a little food for thought. Something to think about on your way back to Papa John."

Azazel leaned in close, deliberately bumped his shoulder against Dean's. "Haven't you ever wondered," the Demon said softly, "why you see things that John or Sam never see?"

_Sometimes the thing in the closet looked like oily black smoke. It had teeth, and it was hungry. It ate the tiny kitten that belonged to the people who lived there before. It liked little things, and kids, too. Like Sammy. _

_Dean waited until Dad went out on hunting for the night. He sat six year old Sammy down at that raggedy old kitchen table and gave the kid Lucky Charms for dinner like he wanted, the last bowl of Lucky Charms in the house. Dean went into the bedroom with his silver knife and he didn't stop stabbing the damn thing until it was just a wisp of pale dead smoke in the air… _

Dean blinked slowly. It was fucking with him, that's all. Bastard read his mind…

"You never thought of going to your Dad, never thought of telling him."

_Stop talking to me. Shut up! Shut the hell up…_

"All this time, you pretended to be human. You were his good little soldier. Daddy's trained attack dog." Azazel's tone was low, friendly. Sympathetic, even. "But what you are inside had to come out sometimes, didn't it, Dean? And you never let it out except when you were alone, or away from him where he couldn't see."

_Climbing over the fence was cake. The two Dobies backed off as soon as he looked at them, but he killed them both anyway. That was two less pairs of teeth in the world that he had to worry about. He had a clear path to the house, and the rest was easy. He took cash only, and that was fine. He didn't feel bad about it. Why shouldn't they have nice things for once? Dad was off hunting and Sammy needed to eat. _

"And sometimes, when you're out hunting, the things you hunt ignore you completely and head straight for John. Sometimes the things you hunt look at you like they know exactly what you are."

…_boy…_

_She stared at Dean and his fingers tightened on the grip of his machete._

…_you're not like him…_

_She was inside his head and he just wanted her to shut the hell up. Dad swung his machete and the vamp-thing faltered._

…_why are you doing this?_

_Dean followed Dad in. Two swings later the hag lost her head and finally shut up for good. _

_Dad looked at him after it was all over, gave that slight grin of his and clapped him on the shoulder. Good job, son. That was enough to make Dean feel better, but he couldn't get that voice out of his head. _

Azazel paused, and whether it was for dramatic effect or some other crap Dean just didn't know.

Five minutes later Dean just sat there, staring into space.

He could tell himself he'd just been mind-fucked. Sure. Damn demon pulling his chain, putting all those crazy thoughts in his head. Anything to start some shit between him and Dad, anything to distract them from hunting his sorry yellow eyed ass down and sending him back to hell. Or worse.

Only thing was, he couldn't convince himself. He couldn't feel _anything_. It was funny, but he just couldn't. He felt frozen inside. This was a new feeling for him. He was a freak. So what? He'd known that all along. Now he knew exactly what kind of freak he really was, and what the hell was he supposed to do, cry about it?

Five minutes ago the air around his body loosened up. His muscles relaxed. He could move again, but he didn't. He just sat there. The bastard who was responsible for totally fucking up his family now and forever sat just within arm's reach.

And Dean just sat there.

"Well, time flies, kid. I got to go." Azazel patted Dean on the knee, then got up smoothly and brushed his hands off on his jeans. "Remember, demons lie. After all, it's in the job description, but sometimes we tell the truth, too. Perks of the J-O-B, y'know. Think about what I said, huh?" Another touch, this time a pat on the head that Dean barely felt, and the Demon stepped over Turner's body and walked out the door.

_**OOO**_

He popped the bullet out just by thinking about it. The hole in his skin closed up almost as soon as he got the slug out.

Stopping at a laundromat and cleaning up wasn't gonna fly. He still had to ditch his jacket and t shirt. Dad was like a scent hound when it came to blood and holes that Dean couldn't explain. He was lucky the jacket was army surplus. Green fatigue jackets were a dime a dozen and cheap, just like black t shirts. Cash was good; using one of the credit cards was out of the question. That would have been careless and stupid, like sending up a flare.

Dad wouldn't notice if he bought the same one.

But then again, he might.

Even at 15, Sammy was no slouch, either. Dean could usually tell when Sam was keeping an eye on him with that dumb-ass psychic link of his. So far, nothing, but just to make sure Dean put up a wall. No sense in the kid seeing how this particular movie ended. And if Sam had somehow been able to see what happened before, the damage was already done.

Dean sat there for a moment, with the bloody slug in his hand. It was flattened on one end, all crumpled up, kind of like the way he'd feel, if he _let_ himself feel. He couldn't feel any pain. None at all. He didn't know how he was blocking it, he shouldn't have been able to do this, any of this. He glanced over at Turner's body, and he didn't feel a thing.

_Got to take care'a you now. Cain't let you run around loose pretendin' to be somethin' you ain't. Your daddy wouldn't want that for ya, now would he?_

_No, I imagine he wouldn't. _

Everything had changed, and nothing had.

Shit happened. Duh. Like_ that_ was news to him.

_Gotta roll with this,_ Dean thought to himself. He slipped the slug into his jacket pocket. _Gotta improvise, adapt to the environment. Make the best of this. Man up, Winchester. Get your sorry ass up and get moving. Now. _

Dean moved through the house and retrieved the books and the amulets for the hunt. He found that if he thought about it the places he'd touched, like the door bell and such, were wiped clean of his prints. He didn't quite trust it, though, so he wiped everything down with a rag anyway.

Before he left he opened the door and stared up at that damn mirror. He was barely aware of the words he whispered under his breath. It wasn't Latin. It wasn't anything he'd ever seen or heard before.

He wasn't surprised when that mirror cracked right down the middle.

That hungry, restless stirring inside Dean's skull quietened down then. It was like a door being opened.

The more he used it, the better he liked it. No sweat. No problem.

Out on the road Dean kept glancing at himself in the rear view mirror. He kept expecting to see something. A change in his skin, maybe, tried to see if he'd changed so much Dad and Sam could tell the moment he walked in the door. He couldn't see anything. Now he had a label, a name for what he was. That was all. He was still the same. Same green eyes. Same freckled skin.

He called Dad on his cell about an hour later.

"He was dead when I got there. Heart attack, looked like. No, sir. No one saw me come or go. I got what I came for and wiped the place clean. Called the cops after I left."

"Okay, son." John's tone was quiet, calm. "Come on home."

_Everything's fine,_ Dean told himself as he drove back. Dad didn't know anything. He _wouldn't _know anything, not if Dean had anything to say about it. This was doable. He could make it work.

He avoided mirrors for the next week or so.

_**OOO**_

_**Chapter 8 posted immediately after this one.**_


	8. Who Made Who

_**A/N: **_Pop culture references: I think everybody knows who Bullitt and Steve McQueen are. I've stolen, I mean, _borrowed_ certain lines of dialogue from the show. I'm pretty sure you can point 'em all out, so I won't have to. The chapter title's taken from the ACDC song, _Who Made Who_.

Summary: Dean has time to think while he drives to Bobby's place to turn himself in.

Disclaimer: I don't own John, Bobby, Dean, Sam, Hendricksen, Ben, or Jo. And I'm not happy about it, either.

* * *

_**Chapter 7 – Who Made Who**_

_**NOW:**_

"Ben? You still hungry?" Hendricksen asks for the second time.

Ben shakes his head _no_. He sits there on the floor staring at the television while Hendricksen sits at the small wooden table in the kitchen area. Ben hasn't said more than six words all night. Vic gets the message loud and clear: _I'm only here because my dad told me to be, dude. Don't have to like it. Don't have to like you. And just so you know, I'm not kissing your ass. _

The apple didn't fall far from the tree with this one.

Hendricksen shrugs. "You can have the rest of the pizza if you want."

Ben ignores him like a cat.

Yep, just like his old man.

Hendricksen closes the pizza box up. Less than half the pizza's left, so he slips the box into that half refrigerator. He gets up, bags up the empty soda cans and the paper plates and tosses the bag into the trash.

The crap Ben's watching on television is some dumb-ass show on the CW. It's called _Reaper_, and as usual they play the horror stuff for laughs. Stupid frat-boy stuff. The MOTW this time is a runaway soul from hell based on a Pelemafait, a moss monster, and yeah, as usual they've got the details all ass backwards _wrong_.

Hendricksen hunted one down in Baton Rouge Louisiana, and damn near got the life crushed out of him before he nailed the bastard with a spear made of bayou gum wood. These idiots wave a neon-colored dustbuster at the thing and it dissolves very nicely, thank you very much.

Bunch of crap.

In another half hour or so it's gonna be nine o'clock. Ben's bedtime. The only reason Ben will go quietly is because Dean told him to follow Hendricksen's orders. Otherwise, things would have gotten pretty interesting, just like they did on the parking lot, when Ben tried to stop Vic's heart. Three times.

Just like his old man.

Hendricksen doesn't allow himself to think about Dean not coming back. That's not an option. Back when he was part of the Bureau, while he was chasing Dean's crazy ass across the desert Southwest, there were plenty of times Hendricksen would have bet the chase was over, that Dean was as good as caught. Winchester and Singer are going to have their hands full with Dean, no matter what kind of leverage they have over him.

Vic settles back down on the bed and it's just pure dumb luck that he happens to glance up at the window. Hendricksen sees a pair of reddish orange eyes in the darkness outside, and his gut tightens as he puts his hand on his gun.

He's laid down salt lines and _keep away_ dust around the window sills and doors. It should be enough to keep everything fugly out.

It usually is.

Everything seems to go in slow motion after that. Hendricksen has barely enough time to yell at Ben, tell the kid to get behind him, before the damn thing crashes through the second story window in a blur of reddish orange eyes, sharp white teeth and dark claws.

_**000**_

"Sam's gonna hate me, and that's fine," John says quietly to Bobby.

Well, hell, that was exactly what Bobby _didn't _want to hear.

Bobby's place is quiet now. Sam's sleeping quietly in the other room, tied down to the bed by his wrists and ankles. John stares hard at the bottle of beer in his hand, and the look he gives Bobby is sharp, hard. _I dare you,_ that look says. _I dare you to go against me on this. This is my family. These are my boys._

_Damn you and all your damn family. Fuck you and your boys, _Bobby thinks. _You claiming freaks now, John? Is that it?_

Bobby takes another swallow of beer. He knows the exact moment when he lost control. It slipped away like smoke between his fingers almost a day ago.

"Sam can always go back to Stanford when this is all over. I'll take him there myself." John says flatly, and Bobby knows what's coming next. "I've made arrangements. I'm going to have Dean contained until I can figure out how to break the link. I'm not going to lose both my sons to this thing."

"Then what?" Bobby shrugs and takes a swallow of beer.

"Dean's got to be put down, Bobby."

Bobby keeps his face carefully blank. _Yeah, right. Just how fucking stupid do you think I am?_

Sure, they'd lock Dean up, pen him up in some cell somewhere, with containment spells and amulets, the whole works, and then the process of tracking down the exact spell and the damn demon who linked the brothers together would begin. This could go on for months, for years, and Bobby knew _that_ wasn't gonna fly, not at all.

That was the kind of time Bobby didn't have. He wanted this _over_. Wanted it _done_. Wanted to go back to Lila, sit next to her there in her white hospital room, wanted to tell her that she didn't have to be afraid of green eyes anymore, that the bastard who hurt her was dead and gone, and before Dean went Bobby made him suffer long and slow, all for her.

Now all that was in serious doubt. Bobby was sure he had lost whatever momentum he had in convincing John that Dean had to die. This containment thing was a bad idea, the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. Dean was tricky. They probably didn't know even half of what he was really capable of, and Bobby didn't doubt that at one point the freak would figure Sam was expendable. He'd kill his own brother, and then break out. But _that_ wasn't the only worry.

Given enough time, John could soften. He _would_ soften. His weak spot was his boys. Bobby knew that. Hell, even the damn demons knew that.

Given enough time, John could start thinking that maybe there was a way to save Dean after all. He'd look at his eldest son, see that face so much like Mary Winchester, remember the kid when he was young and small and innocent.

Bobby nearly choked as he took another swallow of beer. Good thing he had his game face on.

Over a day ago, back in that motel room back in Indiana, they'd drugged Sam, tied him to that chair. They worked him over, bloodied and bruised him up just enough to get Dean's attention through the link. After that was over, Bobby had the feeling everything was twisting and turning in the wrong direction as soon as John opened his damn mouth.

"Sam?"

"D-Dad… pl-please…dun't….dun't hurt me…any…more…"

"Sam, I need to know how you and Dean got linked in the first place. Was it his idea? Was it something he did to you?"

"…can't tell…nuh…no…"

"Tell me how it happened, Sam."

"…wr-wrong…y-your…f-fault…"

"What?"

"…y-your…f-fault…c-couldn't find you…but Dean…Dean always there… looked in some'a Pastor Jim's books…didn't mean it… got some of his hair an' my blood… drew…drew the marks on the ground…it came…jumped into her body…keeps coming back…"

At the time Bobby felt like pulling out his shotgun and killing both of them right then and there. John had his back to him, and Sam was in no condition to even yell out a warning. Sam's death might transmit through the link, might even kill Dean, but then there was always the chance that it wouldn't.

Besides, Bobby wanted to hear Dean scream, wanted to see those green eyes glaze over in fear and panic and pain. Hearing that pretty mouth beg for mercy would be like music to Bobby's ears.

Bobby doesn't say very much right now. He sits there and listens to the grandfather clock that Lila loved to tinker with, hears each tick of the clock mechanism echo the beating of his heart. He's got weapons stashed in different places all over the house. This is _his_ house,_ his_ turf, and all he's got to do is wait for the right moment.

_**000**_

Four hours out, and the moon's already up, bleached bone skull riding low in the sky. Half a state over Dean passes a strip mall parking lot next to the highway and spots an older guy sitting in a 2008 Highland Green Bullitt Mustang underneath the overhead lights.

As soon as Dean sees the car, he starts grinning.

_Hello, beautiful._

Dean makes a U-turn, pulls the Camry up right behind the Mustang. He walks up to the driver's side window, and as soon as the driver looks at him in the rear view mirror it's all over. If Dean hadn't wiped his memory minutes later, the victim would have sworn later on that Steve McQueen sauntered up to him and asked for his car back.

The vic, a stockbroker named Henry Lloyd, turns the car over to Dean with a smile and a laugh. Dean gives him the keys to the Camry and tells him that it's _his _car now, always has been, and that he_ never_ had a Mustang.

"Okey-dokey," Lloyd chirps.

Dean slides in behind the Mustang's wheel. _I like him_, he thinks to himself. _He said Okey-dokey._

Lloyd stands there waving as Dean pulls off.

Half an hour later, after the initial rush wears off, Dean_ really _misses the Impala. He breathes in that new leather smell as he pushes the Mustang's 350 V-8 engine a little. She rumbles, deep and low, almost as good as the throaty roar of Dean's girl.

Almost, but not quite.

It's not enough. He's behind the wheel of one of the most kick-ass cars ever to put rubber to the road, never mind that when Steve McQueen played Lt. Frank Bullitt Dean wasn't even born yet, but none of that matters.

It's still not enough.

Passenger seat's empty, and Dean hates _that_.

Radio's standard issue, and the stations it picks up are nothing to write home about. No AC/DC. No Metallica.

Dean hates _that_ too.

He scowls as he ranges through the channels and hears one generic pop ballard after another.

He turns the radio off in disgust. Thing is, he's got to fill the silence with something. He drums his fingers on the leather steering wheel. Hell, might as well provide his own soundtrack. He starts out humming "Some Kind of Monster."

Traffic flashes by, dark shadows and white and yellow headlights. He's not a big fan of the color yellow. Period. Jo Harvelle had no way of knowing it, but Mary Winchester was the last blonde Dean ever loved.

It's twenty minutes to midnight by the time Dean turns into the Ridgewood Gas-Mart. He can make it to Bobby's in a couple of hours, but first he has some business to attend to.

Through the window Dean sees the tall twitchy dude holding the gun on the cashier. Dean smiles to himself. This'll do just fine.

_**000**_

Jo laughs to herself as she dumps the boy onto the cold hard floor. She's in her special place now, and Ruby will be here soon. She likes Ruby. Ruby told her about this place. It's one of the alone places, no people around for miles. Ruby taught Jo a lot of things, like how to get past salt and keep away dust and all those other annoying things hunters use to protect themselves.

She hadn't killed that black man. He had symbols on his body that she wasn't prepared for, protective shielding over his heart and it hurt her to touch him, but she bloodied him with her claws and slammed him into the wall before she took the boy.

The boy tried to fight her, and for a moment, just a moment, she wanted to snap his neck in two and be done with it. He killed Momma, but he belongs to Dean, so she didn't. The boy smells like Dean. She lowers her head to sniff at his clothing some more, and she's not surprised when his eyes blink open and he takes a swing at her. He's bruised and bloody, a feisty little morsel.

"Get the hell away from me," the boy rasps out. He's wide-eyed as he jams himself into a corner. He's never seen anything as magnificent as she is, and he can't get away. If he tries to run, she'll only hunt him down again. Jo chuckles a little, deep in her throat.

Soon Ruby will be here, and Dean will come too. After all, she has his boy. It won't be long now.

_**000**_

_Dean remembers the first time he laid eyes on the sisters. They were young, inexperienced, and downright stupid. A more experienced fugly would have been sneakier about it, would have fed on a few normals and then left the area before the hunters showed up. Not these. _

_They attracted attention to themselves right off the bat. _

_It was pure dumb luck that he'd gotten separated, and it wouldn't be long before Dad caught up with him. The three of them stood there in the corner of that abandoned house all huddled together, eyes wide and fearful, and they actually jumped when he walked through the door. They were trapped by the salt lines he'd laid down along three sides of the room. The only way out was through him, and they didn't seem to be very enthused about their chances. _

_The oldest one stepped in front of the two younger ones. Dean could relate to that._

_Besides, he wasn't exactly all that heartbroken about the latest victims, that white-haired senator and his wealthy wife. The guy had been on tv once, and he couldn't even remember whether he owned seven houses, or ten. They turned their noses up like they were smelling a gas leak whenever they looked at Dean and John. Dean knew the look. _

_You're not our kind, but you're useful. White trash…_

_So once Dad was in the clear Dean was a little slower than usual, just slow enough to allow the sisters to feed._

It's twelve thirty by his watch now, and the air in the open field is heavy and still. It's like the earth and the sky are holding its collective breath, as Dean finishes scratching out the summoning sigil in the dirt with one of his utility knives. Once he's done he goes back to the Mustang and pulls the would-be convenience store robber out of the passenger side.

Guy's name is Lester Ross. Dean got his name from his wallet. Lester doesn't say much. He's hogtied pretty securely, and that gag in his mouth stops him from whimpering and cursing. Lester's raped and killed men and women all these years, sometimes to support his drug habit, mostly just because he enjoys it. He's bullied his way through life, preying on those weaker than he is, and now he's the one being preyed on.

_The sisters' eyes gleamed as they watched Dean rub out part of the salt line so they could pass._

"_Thank you…"_

"_Just get the hell out of here," Dean growled roughly._

"_You can come with us." She flitted around him, her feet barely touching the ground. She frowned and shook her head. "Pretending to be a human. Playing at it. What a waste. You can be our little brother, instead of some hunter's cub. Little green eyed boy…"_

_Her fingers carded the top of his head and Dean waved the shotgun at her. "What part of leave didn't you get, bitch?"_

"_We owe you thanks for this. If you ever need help, call on our mother, Saphira Abominatus. Summon her at midnight with an offering of impure sweat and blood. She'll be hungry. She's always hungry. But if you invoke our name, sweet boy, she may take only your offering, and not a pound of your delicious flesh."_

Dean tosses the guy in the center of the sigil and stands back as he calls out the words welcoming her to the feast.

…_omne phantsasima, caeli et terrae, humiliter majestati, simone mago…_

It doesn't take long for big momma to show up.

There's a crunch of broken bone, and the robber lies bloody and whimpering in the center of the sigil. Something moves in the air all around him, a whisper of dark air with a flash of bright white teeth.

Saphira materializes in the night air. She pulls Lester up halfway off the ground and licks the blood off his face. She shudders with pleasure at the taste, and she laughs when she sees that horrified look in his eyes. She throws him back down on the ground, then, and daintily wipes the blood from around her wide mouth off with her fingers. It's time to conduct business, then she can get back to eating in peace. She's come a long way, and she's hungry.

She's taller than Dean, even taller than Sam. Her face and body shift in and out in a snap of black and white scratchy static The air around her body swirls like dense dark smoke. Her long red hair has a life of its own as it coils through the air, snapping and lashing like a nest of angry snakes.

Dean stands his ground. She flows around him, and he knows better than to step back. Even though he just fed her, if he runs, he dies.

"Such a sweet, pretty morsel." Her long blue forked tongue slides up the long line of Dean's neck, and it's too cold, too slimy. She's smiling, sly, knows exactly how it must feel, and he doesn't flinch. He thinks of Ruby holding that damn collar around his neck, making him stand there in one place while they tattooed her ownership sigil on the small of his back. "Don't hide from me, Dean," she said, so naturally he did. He stared right in the bitch's eyes and didn't blink, didn't flinch, when all he really wanted to do was scream, loud and long.

He doesn't flinch.

"I saved your daughters from hunters."

"You did." Her eyes are cold, twin pools of icy blue.

"So you owe me. Big time."

"Ah, an educated morsel. Darling boy, you could be my pet."

Dean doesn't blink. "And get neutered? That deal comes with a collar, doesn't it?"

"If that's what you desire."

"No thanks. Rather keep 'em hangin', if you don't mind."

"As you wish." She glances back at the wounded man in the center of the sigil. Ross flops around like a fish out of water. His back's broken, and that's the least of his worries. "What do you require?"

Dean tells her. She stands there, quiet for once, then he turns and walks back to the Mustang. He's already thinking about Sam, and what's in store for him at Bobby's, so he doesn't hear Ross scream as Saphira gets back to her midnight snack.

_**000**_

Around one o'clock a sharp pain spikes right between Dean's eyes so hard his vision blurs and his fingers jerk the steering wheel over hard to the left. He's damned lucky that there isn't another car around for another mile or so. The Mustang skids on the highway, and it takes an effort for Dean to steady the steering wheel with his left hand, and lift his foot off the gas pedal.

He's thrown against the seat belt, then back into the seat. He knows what this is. Dad and Bobby are going after Sam again. He can feel it through the link.

As soon as the Mustang rolls to a stop Dean bends over, panting. He can't catch his breath. Black spots flare in and out at the edge of his vision. He puts his forehead against the smooth leather of the steering wheel and steadies himself, forces air into his lungs in and out, against the red pain in his head. His mouth fills with this heavy metallic taste.

Sam's afraid.

Dean's afraid.

_I'm coming, you bastards. Be there in a couple of hours. Leave him alone, you fuckin' hear me? Leave him alone…._

Somebody laughs, then, and Dean freezes. It's not Dad. And it's not Sam. The sound makes Dean pause, because all of a sudden he knows exactly who it is, and he's never heard him laugh. Ever. In life.

_Bobby._

_Dean._

_Leave him alone, you bastard._

_Just a little reminder, Dean. That's all. I got more of the same when you get here, boy. _

_I said leave him alone, you sonofabitch. Sam?_

Sam moans, a low, lost sound that makes Dean's insides ache.

_I'm coming. Sam. Hold on. I'm coming…_

**000**

_Next update will be next week. Wednesday, I think. Aw, don't be like that. I gave you two chapters for the price of one this time, and the least you could do would be to review and let me know what you think._


	9. Thrill of Victory & The Agony of Defeat

_**A/N: **_This is the first of several updates that I'll be posting this week. Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed so far. I appreciate all the hits my stories have been getting, and I apologize for the delay. RL can be a real witch.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own them, darn it. Please don't sue me, Eric.

* * *

_**Chapter 9 – The Thrill of Victory & The Agony of Defeat**_

Sometimes, when he looked at her from a certain angle, Jess' eyes turned pitch black.

Sam could explain it away; he always could. It was just his nerves, a trick of the light or the shadows. He was (pick one:) drunk from having one too many beers, stupid from lack of sleep while cramming, or more than likely, running around like a chicken with his head cut off as he rushed back and forth to class.

After all, she was _Jess_. She was sweet and loving and kind and just what he needed after the crazy life he'd led on the road with Dean and Dad. There wouldn't be any more dark in his life, not if he had anything to say about it. Just light and laughter and good old fashioned _normal_.

Jess cried whenever she spotted a dead bird near their apartment. Apparently they got confused and flew into the walls and the windows all the time. Sam saw sparrows with broken, twisted necks. A blue jay here, a dove there, and one day he even saw a large black crow.

Sam found a large grey stray cat one night. He thought Jess might like something all warm and green-eyed and furry, so he brought it inside.

_Big mistake._

He never did understand why the cat hissed at Jess. It was afraid, so it was no wonder it lashed out at her, but it adored Sam. The cat rubbed all up against him. He was able to skritch it behind its ears, and even rub its belly.

The cat disappeared a few nights later, and Jess explained that it slipped out the door as she was coming in. When Sam saw the carcass of that dead cat in the alley the next morning, he didn't make the connection. There were a lot of smoky grey cats in the world. It might have been the same one, or maybe not. He didn't think much more about it. Shit happened.

Sam's imprisoned in his own head now, flying, floating, thanks to the drugs that John pumped into him. That inner critic, the rational side of him, is null and void. He can't feel too much of anything anymore, not the needle marks in the crook of his right elbow, or that puncture wound in his left shoulder that Bobby made with that ice pick. Sam can't understand why Dad's mad at him, or why Bobby hurt him.

He can't understand why Dean's coming.

Sam's got a whole shift in his perception, thanks to the chemicals in his system, a brand new way of thinking about things.

He remembers that night when Dean finally met Jess. Breaking into their apartment in the middle of the night was pure Dean. But then again, if Dean had shown up in broad open daylight Sam would've played hit the deck and not felt sorry about it. Not one friggin' bit.

Dean smirked a little, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, not that night, not even when he saw Jess in those Smurf shortie pajamas of hers. He tilted his head to one side, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Jess, and it was that same look that Sam had seen many times before on hunts. It was Dean sizing up the opposition, Dean shifting smoothly into hunter/killer mode.

He's jealous, Sam thought to himself. A small knot of worry formed in his belly, and he ignored it, pushed it down and away.

His defenses are down now, thanks to the drugs. He thinks about Jess, thinks about all the little things he discounted, stuff he flat out ignored. The bits and pieces of herbs he sometimes found scattered around the apartment. Some of it looked like devil's shoestring. Hawthorne. Jess would always play it off, and Sam couldn't even bring himself to think about what it might have meant, so he went right along with her.

Right now it hits him. He finally gets it. Sam can admit it to himself now, because that night he thought Jess was a little cool and aloof because Dean was being an ass, breaking into their apartment at night like that. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.

Dean and Jess were two of a kind, and Sam had known _that_ all along.

_**000**_

Victor Hendrickson wakes up with a lump on his head. Everything's all fuzzy and out of focus, and that sharp pain in his side when he breathes in and out tells him that at least one rib is cracked.

He's surprised and hell yeah,damn happy to be waking up at all. Breathing is always a plus, a bonus, even though he can already tell that his clothes have been ripped all to hell and that stickiness on his skin is blood. _His blood._

_That_ pisses him off.

He moves slowly at first, pulls himself up to a sitting position on the bed. The claw marks in his chest and belly flex and open slightly. Even though the slashes are deep but not life-threatening it feels like his insides are about to fall out.

The bitch didn't gut him. Wasn't like she didn't_ try_, though.

He'd gotten those protection sigils imprinted on his skin just as a precaution, and he'd felt silly at the time. Having a certain symbol on your skin couldn't protect you, not from claws and teeth. But it did, sometimes. Sometimes it was just enough.

As soon as his sight sharpens Vic sees Ben's right tennis shoe on the carpet. No blood, just that lone, pitiful tennis shoe lying on its side on the carpet, surrounded by all those bits of broken glass, scattered salt and keep away dust gleaming slightly underneath the overhead lights.

The sight of that shoe pisses him off even more. He likes Ben. _Likes_, not past tense. The kid's _not_ dead, and won't be, not tonight, not tomorrow, not at the hands of that furry blonde fug, not if he has anything to say about it. Hendrickson remembers the way Dean's face softened whenever he looked at the boy. Dean Winchester a devoted father. Who the hell would have thought it?

_And besides,_ Hendrickson thinks to himself as he stares down at his ripped clothing. _Nobody puts a hand on me like this. Nobody._

Vic sits blinking for a moment, staring at the window. She was able to breach a thick line of keep away dust and salt. Not your usual fugly then. He sees a small splattering of blood and blonde hair on one of the bigger shards of glass on the beige carpet, and despite the pain, the corners of Hendrickson's mouth twitches upwards in a grim smile. He knows he probably looks crazed grinning like that, with his skin bloody and his clothes ripped, and he just doesn't give a damn.

Blondie's not so special after all. To quote Governor Schwarzenegger: "If it bleeds, we can kill it."

Vic laughs, a short barking sound. _Lock and load. I am going to go and get some. _

He gets up slowly, retrieves his olive green canvas duffel from the far corner. Heavy duty ammo loads in there, special loads, plus some other talismans and amulets and some blessed wood stakes that he can pin Blondie down with while he opens up a can of whoop ass on her.

That scrying amulet he got from that witch down in New Orleans last year finally comes in handy. He can use Ben's shoe to track him, and that blood and blonde fur is just icing on the cake.

Vic moves slowly at first, grunting a little as he kneels to get his gun from underneath the bed where it was thrown. First things first. A quick field dressing to patch himself up, and on the way out the door leave a note so Winchester will know what's up, and where he's headed, when Dean comes back.

_Not if. When._

Time to man up, gear up, and get going.

And all the special abilities in the world won't protect the bitch from him.

_**000**_

Saphira was tempted. _Very tempted. _

She'd taken a few human lovers in the past. They never lasted long. Human men were fragile creatures, they broke easily and bled often, even at her slightest touch. Their minds were like eggshells, and she'd broken quite a few in her time without even meaning to.

That Winchester boy, though…oh, she'd heard the rumors. He was the cream of Old Yellow Eyes' crop, a singular creature who was highly prized in certain circles. Others had described him to her, and their words didn't do him justice. Those bright green eyes, that body. That full, delectable mouth.

The life and the power was strong in that one. He could take whatever she did to him and give it back to her threefold. Ruby tried to break him down into a good little puppy-slave and failed miserably, which was just what you would expect from such an unimaginative little witch slut. There were millions of domesticated animals around. Saphira appreciated wild things, gorgeous, untamed and dangerous.

She licked the last bit of Lester Ross' blood off her fingers. Winchester knew his rituals, and after all he'd provided her with quite a feast. He'd been respectful, and polite up to a point. Now it was time to keep her end of the bargain.

Still and all, she _was_ a demon, not some cursed Girl Scout. The rules could be bent, twisted a little, and if there was a way she could acquire that wondrous green-eyed male, well, so much the better. It always was unseemly to make deals with demons…

_**000**_

"Oh. Sorry," Jo mumbles. She reaches out almost lazily and slashes a stripe across the front of Ben's left leg. Her razor sharp claws rip his jeans with no effort, the tip of her claws stripe his skin red and bloody. The boy flinches, just a little, but it's not enough to be enjoyable, and there's no fear in those eyes.

He won't scream.

"My Dad won't let you get away with this," Ben says calmly. He sits with his back jammed into the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest. He's already stopped the silly business of trying to stop her heart after the third time. Jo chuffs as she paces back and forth on all fours.

This time she aims for his face. Ben jerks backwards, as far as the wall will allow. The tip of her claw slices the air a fraction of an inch in front of Ben's eyelashes. He doesn't even blink.

Jo grunts softly. She's not having any fun.

"Dean won't mind if he never sees you again." It's a damn lie, of course. "Has he told you about me?" Jo stands up on her hind legs, cards the smooth thick blonde fur at her hips with clawed fingertips.

"I did this for Dean," she hisses. "All of this, just for him. He loves me."

"Loves you? Now, how in the hell could he love _you_?" The kid snorts laughter. "You're fugly."

Jo growls. She's on top of Ben before she even knows it. She has him by the throat as she knocks the back of his head against the wall. He still won't scream as she as she hooks one hand into the front of his t shirt. It would be so easy. Rip and tear until his blood flowed like a river, and those green eyes glazed over with terror just before she closed them for all eternity. But…

"Jo, dear," Ruby says softly, "You're not supposed to damage the merchandise."

Jo freezes, and that brief glint of fear is gone from Ben's eyes, too quick for Jo to savor it. He's imitating Dean now, he's got that tough guy act down pat, even though his heart beats quick and fast in his chest.

Ben sneers at Ruby, just for effect.

"Hello, mini-Dean," Ruby says breezily. "My, my, are we having fun yet?" She seems genuinely glad to see him, and that big bright smile on her face bothers Ben, makes him uneasy. Jo loosens her grip on his throat just enough to allow him to breathe.

Jo purrs, deep in her throat as she drops to all fours and slinks over to Ruby. She curls herself around Ruby's ankles, once, twice, arches upwards as Ruby lightly runs her fingertips down her back.

"Dean's coming," Jo murmurs softly. "He's coming, and we can talk to him, and everything will be all right, the way it should have been before." She closes her eyes and leans into Ruby. Jo raises her head to rub her cheek alongside Ruby's leg, and that's all the opening Ruby needs.

"That's right, dear," Ruby purrs, and the knife is in her hand before Jo can react. The tip of the blade slices into the soft underside of Jo's neck, and Ruby deftly steps out of the way of the blood splatter. Jo's reddish orange eyes glaze over and her lifeless body drops to the floor like a rock.

Ben goes perfectly still.

Ruby smiles at him. "Okay, Short Round. Change of plans. It's just you and me now." She kneels and wipes the knife clean on Jo's sleek flank. "I expect you to behave yourself. You'll do as I say, when I say, and for Hades' sake, stop trying to kill me with that heart attack thing of yours." Ruby rolls her eyes. "Something like that doesn't work on something like me."

_**000**_

Dean slowly guides the Mustang up the driveway to Bobby's house underneath that full moon overhead. Place hasn't changed at all from the last time he was there, but it seems a lifetime ago. That time the sun was shining, and he knew that if he ever came back there it was very likely he wouldn't get out alive.

John Winchester stands in the doorway, relaxed and easy. Dean cuts the headlights, turns the engine off and sits there for a moment.

The porch light's on, and that dim yellow glow softens the planes of John's face. His hands are empty, but Dean's not fooled. He stares at his father's face, and he recognizes the look. Dad's clear-eyed, focused. He looks like the John Winchester of years ago, before he found out what that his eldest son really was.

Bobby's not around. He's inside with Sam. Rumsfeld's chained up around back, but Dean's pretty sure that the dog wouldn't have been a factor in any case. Bobby wants to be the one to draw first blood, if John lets him.

"Dad."

"Dean." John nods. His voice is neutral, his tone's firm, in command. "You know the drill."

He doesn't have to say much more than that. Dean and John have always communicated silently like that on hunts, almost from the very beginning. A slight tilt of John's head and Dean knew when to lay low, when to fire his weapon, or follow through with salt, silver, or the spoken word of a ritual. A slightly raised eyebrow from John, and Dean knew when to shut the hell up and let his father do all the talking. Everything's changed now, and nothing really has.

_Go slow. Let me see your hands at all times. _

Dean leaves the keys in the ignition, keeps his hands up where John can see them. Dean moves slowly as he opens the car door and steps out.

Dean closes the door, raises his hands up, palms out, and steps away from the Mustang.

_Lose the jacket. Slow and easy. _

Dean slips out of his black fatigue jacket, lets it slide into the dust of Singer Salvage Yard, and steps away from it.

_Turn around. Lace your hands behind your head. On your knees. Cross your legs at the ankles._

Dean does it like he does everything else, with smoothness and grace.

He takes a deep breath when he hears that heavy thump of John's boots as he steps down off the porch. John's right behind him, and a part of Dean wants to lash out at him, stop his heart, scramble the electrical energy of his brain.

Dean's eyes darken to murky gold for a split second, and he struggles with it, actually has to force that restless stirring inside his head to quiet down. It hisses and squalls in his grip, nearly turns in its own skin, catlike. It takes all Dean's strength to pin it down, and keep it still.

If he kills John there's no telling what Bobby will do to Sam. Sam will be alright as long as Dad's around.

As long as Dean submits.

The dark gold color of his eyes fades out, back to bright green. John puts his hands over Dean's laced fingers, squeezes Dean's hands together in a firm sure-handed grip. John's skin is callused, his grip rock solid, a familiar touch, and Dean doesn't even react as John firmly pushes his head down and forward.

Something bites hard into the skin at the back of his neck. The world around him wavers and slides sideways out from underneath him. Dean falls forward into pitch blackness.

_**000**_

_**TBC**_


	10. Acquiris Quodcumque Rapis

Chapter title taken from Terry Pratchett's _Discworld_, the Morporkian legal principle "Acquiris Quodcumque Rapis" ("You Get What You Grab").

**Chapter 10 – "Acquiris Quodcumque Rapis" **

Bobby comes out on the porch and just stands there.

Dean goes completely boneless as his eyes roll up into his head. John's grip on Dean's hands is the only reason Dean doesn't face plant into the yard. Gonna be real interesting to see how he treats his wayward freak son now that he has Dean in hand, and John doesn't disappoint.

He lets go, and Dean slumps forward. John quickly hooks his fingers into the back of Dean's collar, then turns Dean over onto his side as he guides him slowly down onto the ground with smooth efficient motions. There's no heat in it, no anger. No unnecessary roughness. It's matter-of-fact, business as usual.

Bobby's eyes narrow. Damn.

John stands there for a moment, staring down at Dean, and right then and there Bobby knows exactly how it's going to go with that bullshit about containing Dean. With his eyes closed like that, his face and body relaxed, Dean looks young, almost as young as Sam. It would be easy to fool yourself about him, easy to think that he can somehow be saved. John stands there looking down at his eldest son and Bobby can read him like a damn book.

"Didn't think he'd go down that easy," Bobby says slowly. Regardless, the sight of Dean sprawled unconscious on the ground at his father's feet is a beautiful sight.

John spits the cap of the syringe into the palm of his hand and slides it over the needle. "Knew he would all along," John says dryly.

_You're that damn sure of yourself, aren't you, you bastard,_ Bobby wants to say. But he doesn't. This is working to his advantage so far.

John tosses the capped syringe to the ground some feet away. He kneels at his eldest son's head and slips a thick string of containment amulets out of his jeans pocket. He carefully loops the talismans around Dean's neck, underneath his t shirt. John's careful to press the blessed metal directly against Dean's bare skin. Dean whimpers a little in his sleep, and John stands up, satisfied.

"Sam?"

Bobby shrugs. "Put the amulet around his neck as soon as I heard Dean pull in. Sam's shielded from the link for now."

Another nod from John, and Bobby could almost believe that the man is on a mission. But everybody knows how he feels about his boys. John will soften. No doubt about it. His boys are his weak spot, even the damn demons know _that_.

"Get his feet," John tells Bobby as he kneels and grips Dean underneath his arms. The tone in the man's voice grates on Bobby's nerves, but he doesn't show it as he comes down the steps.

Bobby figures he has until dawn at least. Four hours or more. Plenty of time to make his move.

_**000**_

Dean's never quite sure what's going to take center stage when he goes under like that. Sometimes it's pleasant. Sometimes he dreams that he's sitting in Mary and John's kitchen, and he's eating this humongous BLT, chasing it down with a cold glass of soda, and Mom's alive and well and smiling at him, and Dad is looking at him in this bemused way like, _Good Lord, this boy's going to eat us out of house and home. _

John never tries to kill Dean in his dreams.

This dream isn't pleasant. Dean's yanked down beneath the surface of his skin, hard and fast, and it feels like that time up in Utah when that disembodied spirit tried to body-jack him. Dean was caught off guard then, didn't know half of what he was capable of at the time.

The joy ride didn't last long.

Now he remembers the standing on the bridge back in Jericho, can hear Azazel's smooth voice in his ears as everything goes south, quick, fast and in a hurry. Dean goes numb all over as he turns around. Everything's failing, shutting down, and nothing he has works. He catches a glimpse of blonde hair, smells his blood in the air, and the smile Ruby gives him is cold and bright.

_I've got you now, boy. _

Everything goes pitch black.

Slim fingers card through the hair at the back of his neck. The other set of hands touching him are shorter, stubbier. Whatever they're rubbing into those scars on his back smells like lavender, and it's almost pleasant. Almost. That is if he could ignore the fact that he's spreadeagled on his belly, tied four points, wrists and ankles, to the bed.

And this blonde bitch is petting him like he's her damn dog.

"Dean." Ruby smiles as she strokes the hair at the back of his neck. "Such a beautiful name for a beautiful boy. I think I'll change it, though. You're mine now. My property. Your name is Tristan from now on. Do you know what 'Tristan' means?

"No, bitch, I don't," Dean grates out. "But I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me."

Ruby smiles just then, and the pain that starts radiates from inside Dean's head, red hot and sudden. Christ, he's never felt anything as bad as this. The world around him blurs, softens into grey. His lungs hitch uselessly as he tries to breathe, his heart thunders against his ribs.

It all falls down to a routine after that. Dean gets it. He does. He has no say in anything anymore, and the whole point of this exercise is to prove just that. He agrees to everything and nothing, and Ruby is still not fooled. Not one bit.

He's a valuable commodity. He knows that. He's not at all sure how low Ruby's willing to go. He doesn't want to risk any permanent lasting damage to his body, but it's not his decision anymore.

She wants to get him to that point, the point where he literally sobs it out, "Please, please don't hurt me anymore. Please. Tristan. My name is Tristan."

Ten days later, he gives it to her.

One day after that Dean stands there quietly with those damn needles buzzing against his skin like angry bees, as the techs tattoo Ruby's ownership sigil on the small of his back, the nape of his neck, and over the curve of his right bicep.

Ruby holds him by that blonde leather collar around his neck. She stares into his eyes, and at first she doesn't like what she sees. He's hiding. Hiding the pain, hiding himself.

Dean takes a shallow breath, and the air in his lungs feels like razors. He surrenders then, becomes Tristan, and lets her see.

Ruby smiles.

_**000**_

Hendrickson keeps his pistol trained on Blondie as he enters the room. She hasn't exactly been the poster girl for Normal so far, and he's not taking any chances, even though she's lying there sprawled out on the floor near a fairly large pool of her own blood. Could be an illusion, or she might be turning in an Oscar winning performance of being dead and gone just to lure the mighty hunter into ripping range of her claws.

Vic goes wide as he keeps to the perimeter of the room. He can't see her face, just her body from the back, and he's not going to relax until he's sure. When he reaches the far wall he sees wide blank reddish orange eyes, teeth set in an eternal snarl, and that huge gash in her throat looks like a second smile. Looks dead, all right, but all he wants to do is make sure.

He double taps her in the head, right between the eyes. Just to make sure. Nothing.

_Now_ she's done.

He can relax a little now.

No sign of Ben. Slitting this one's throat just isn't the kid's style, so whoever did this took him too. Vic turns and casts around for some sign, and at first he doesn't see it. He can't make it out at first, over there in the far corner, but when he kneels down he almost laughs out loud when he sees it.

It's a shoestring. A damn shoestring from the kid's other tennis shoe. It's smudged with dirt, but it's a match to the one in Ben's other shoe. Kid's left a message for him. Ben didn't lose his head, and he thought things through. Just like his old man.

Vic can track Ben even further now, with the crystal, just because the kid left behind something he'd touched. It's all good, and it's about to get even better. He turns around, steps as close to Blondie's body as he can without getting blood on his shoes.

It's surprising how well the habits and training he had when he was in the Bureau translate into the Seven Highly Effective Habits of a Hunter. There are tools for the job out there, and a man (or woman) would have to be a damned fool _not _to use them.

Hendrickson slips one hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out an eight-sided bronze talisman about the size of a fifty cent piece on a long chain. Got this particular amulet from a Haitian voodoo priest in New Jersey, of all places. He's been waiting for the chance to try it out.

He kneels down carefully and dangles the amulet directly over Blondie's head. The words come easily, a combination of Kreyol Creole and dog Latin.

"Leve kanpe lespir. Teren ou-menm Nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat."

The chain swings slowly at first, then faster in ever widening circles just over her head. A cold wind flows into the room, raises goosebumps over his hands and ankles, and Hendricksen ignores it all.

He stands up and steps back. A bright white mist fills the air as Blondie's spirit reforms over her body.

She stares down at herself, at all the blood, and frowns. "She hurt me," she whispers, and Hendrickson could almost feel sorry for her. _Almost._ "She hurt me."

"Actually," Hendrickson quips, "she killed your furry blond ass."

Blondie's eyes go to slits. "And _you _shot me," she says accusingly. She glances at the pistol in his hand and actually shrinks back a little, her tail lashing the air behind her.

"Think of it as payback for you trying to gut me," he shrugs.

Blondie sits there pouting. "What happens now?"

"Now? " Hendrickson quirks an eye at her. "I'm going to track down the bitch who did this. You want in, or not?"

_**000**_

Ben scrambled backwards as Ruby walked towards him. He seemed to be in a panic, even to the point of kicking off the only tennis shoe he had on. She didn't bother picking it up. Serves him right if he caught pneumonia. He had a limited shelf life anyway, no matter what Dean did.

She wasn't about to knock him out. That would have been too much heavy lifting, and no fun besides. She really did enjoy that look of fear in his eyes as she reached out and took control of his body with her mind. He shuddered as her will flowed over his skin, and she wasn't at all gentle about it. The boy moved with jerky motions as she forced him to let go of the tennis shoe and stand there. Just to irritate him even further she patted him on the head and told him he was a good boy.

Just before she cast the transport spell Ruby passed her hand over Ben's eyes and struck him blind.

He was more like Dean than she gave him credit for. After he realized what she'd done to him Ben didn't scream or yell out. After the initial startled gasp, and a hitch in his throat he settled himself almost immediately. His mouth set in this firm hard line and he just stood there, staring sightlessly into space.

There was always the chance that he would start crying, so she left him his voice.

She gave him his sight back once they reached the house, but not out of any kindness. The mansion was heavily warded, and she let Ben see the wards as giant scaly snakes, the color of dried blood, that twisted and slithered in and out of the walls.

Now she pushes him down the hallway into that small room on the right. It's his room, and it will be for the rest of his life, however short that might be.

"My dad's gonna come and kick your ass, you lousy demon skank."

Maybe she should have hit the mute button after all.

Ruby smiles coldly at him. "Nobody likes a smart ass, Ben. You think Dean's gonna come charging in to save you, huh?" She leans down, stares the boy right in the face. "He might decide to just write you off. I broke Dean when he was with me. Your big macho daddy cried like a baby."

Ben's eyes narrow. "That's bullshit. You're a damn liar."

"Watch your mouth, kid." A part of Ruby wonders why she even bothers to argue with the little snot. Deep down she knows why. There's so much Dean in the boy, it's hard not to. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Why yes," Ben says smugly. "Yes I do."

Ruby snarls at him as she steps out of the room and slams the door shut behind her.

Ben sits on the thick mattress and bounces up and down as he looks around. The room isn't _that_ bad. It wasn't as nice as his room back in Indiana with his mom, and it's not as nice as the hotel rooms he and Dean stayed in, but the place is clean enough. It's bare except for the bed and that bathroom over in the corner. He can ignore the fact that there aren't any windows, and the only light is that caged light bulb set high up in the ceiling.

Ben bounces up and down on the bed as he thinks about stuff. She's not going to hurt him, not yet anyway, not until Dad gets here. That might be something he could use…

_**000**_

Dean comes back to himself little by little. His head's filled with thick soft cotton, and he can't move at all. Not that he's surprised by any of this. John and Bobby never did fool around.

All Dean can do now is breathe and blink. Vision's shot to hell, but breathing is always good.

He sits there and takes inventory, and aside from the breathing and blinking part, the rest of the news is all bad. No damage to any body parts that he can tell, just a general weakness and numbness all around, thanks to whatever was in that syringe John hit him with. He can't hold his head up anyway, but that strap underneath his chin is doing the job just fine, just like the heavy wide leather straps across his chest wrists, legs and ankles. He's strapped in, and not to any flimsy dining room chair, either. Damn thing's solid oak from the feel of it. The leather restraints are lined with sheepskin. No telling where Bobby got this rig from. Hospital, maybe. Mental institution, more than likely.

Dean tastes metal in his mouth. Silver, bronze, and gold. Blessed metal, then, probably blessed with him in mind. It presses down on his tongue, and he's thankful that he's so numb his gag reflex hasn't kicked in. He can feel the containment amulets looped around his neck, dull heavy pressure on his neck and chest. He has to make a real effort to breathe, in and out. Thing is, he doesn't know how many breaths he has left before things get really interesting.

He hears a sharp intake of breath, ragged and uneven in the white haze directly in front of him, and the power inside Dean's head stirs sluggishly. It's coiled inside the lizard part of his brain, wants to lash out at the nearest living being, wants to hurt them the way he's been hurt.

…_hurt...caught… because of him…_

It wants to kill whoever's standing there.

And Dean knows who it is, even as his eyes flare dark gold.

_No…no…it's Sam. It's Sam! Don't you do it. Don't you dare…_

The wards around the chair flare up, sending a wave of white dampening energy over Dean's skin. The force of the wave jerks him forward, then slams him back into the chair. He doesn't move too much because of the straps. His dark gold eyes spark out, stutter back to pale tired green.

He can't hear anything at first, not over the harsh sound of his breath going in and out of his lungs, or his heartbeat, loud and fast, but he struggles with himself, forces himself to calm the hell down. Dean sags underneath the straps with relief as he picks up the sound of ragged breathing in front of him.

"Hey, Sammy."

"I…I didn't think you'd come."

"Yeah…well I …I was in the neighborhood…."

He doesn't see it when Sam's hand slams against the side of his face, but the hit does jar him enough to clear his sight up. The cure to temporary blindness is a slap upside the head. Who knew.

Dean blinks. "You that glad to see me, huh?"

"Stop it, Dean. Stop it. "

"Okay."

Sam stands there, too tired, too pale. Sam holds his left shoulder too stiffly, and Dean remembers Bobby and that damn wake-up call several hours ago. Bastard.

Hair's just as shaggy as ever. Dean doesn't like the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looks way too thin for his height and build.

_What the hell, kid,_ Dean thinks to himself. _When was the last time you ate something? _

Dean sees that triangular amulet around Sam's neck, and he recognizes it immediately.

Sam's shielded from the link.

Show's going to start, any moment now.

"You killed Jess."

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

Something clicks in Dean's throat as he swallows. "You know why."

"She…she wasn't—" Sam sounds frantic, desperately trying to convince himself.

'Yeah. Yeah, she was. Knew it the minute I saw her."

"Why didn't you…why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?" Dean scoffs wearily. "You never answered my calls. In two years, you never called me back. Would you have believed me if I told you that Jess was one'a Azazel's kids?"

Sam stares down at the ground directly in front of Dean's feet.

"You…you wanted normal. She wasn't normal," Dean whispers roughly. "I never meant to hurt you, Sam. But I couldn't let that bitch bring you down."

Sam's head rocks back and his knees buckle as he crumples to the floor on his hands and knees. At first Dean doesn't understand what's happening. He sees Bobby standing over Sam, sees the blackjack in Bobby's hand, and Dean gets it then.

"Look, Bobby. Do whatever you want to me, but leave Dad and Sam alone."

Bobby laughs shortly. "You really think I'm gonna fall for that, boy? I got John in the other room. He figured me out at the last moment, but I got the drop on him first. He was gonna stick you in some cell until we broke the link between you and Sam."

Bobby shakes his head. "Everybody knows John Winchester's soft when it comes to his boys. Even you, you damn freak." He kneels beside Sam and hooks his fingers in the chain around Sam's neck.

"Won't be needing this anymore," Bobby says dryly, and he pulls the talisman off, tosses it into a corner. He slips the blackjack back into his pocket, pulls out a long sharp silver knife, and steps in close to Dean.

"I don't need to draw you a picture, do I, Dean? You know what's gonna happen next."

The first jab with the knife burns like hellfire, all the way down to his core. The blade must be magicked or something.

Dean tries not to scream, but Sam does.

_**000**_

TBC – Update next week.

Oh yeah, before I forget:

Translation: Leve kanpe lespir: _Rise, spirit rise. _Teren ou-menm: Ground yourself. It's Kreyol, Haitian Creole. The rest of the spell is _lorem ipsum_, placeholder text. Gibberish.


End file.
